


Demon Outside My Window

by Hekwos



Category: Bleach
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, BAMF Kurosaki Ichigo, Blood Drinking, Blood and Violence, Demons, Horror, M/M, Magic, Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Sex, Vasto Lorde
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-10-23
Packaged: 2019-10-23 15:48:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 106,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17686415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hekwos/pseuds/Hekwos
Summary: Toshiro, a child shunned by society, alone and struggling to find anything worth living for, until one night he finds a demon outside his window. Ichigo, an ancient demon, lost in the dullness of eternity until he is drawn to an unusually strong soul soaked in despair. A world of magic where humans have lost the war against the darkness, huddling in fear of the night.OP Ichigo, eventual OP Toshiro, eventual OP GrimmjowMassive cast, dark themesMultiple pairings, eventual ensemble cast - GrimmIchi, IchiHitsu, GrimmIchiHitsu, other pairings tbdDark themes - violent deaths, moral ambiguity, bloodplay, horrorBut also - dragon Hyorinmaru, fluff, love, evolving Ichigo as in he starts out ooc but becomes more 'Ichigo' as we go





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Another long fantasy epic! I wanted to save this until my other in-progress works are done, but I write such long stories and I can't wait to share this one. It's my personal favorite. I'm anxious to hear what you think of it, though this first chapter is just a prologue...

There was a child crying, a tiny broken heart gasping in the darkness. Fear and misery, sadness and longing for someone, anyone to take away the pain. It was a siren’s call, irresistible, the heady scent of it drifting along the wind for miles over cultivated stretches of crops, open pasture lands, deep forests. And they came, lured by that wish, by that delicious scent. Innocent and despairing, a willing sacrifice that would walk into the night eagerly with only a few kinds words, a genuine promise of an end to suffering.

They came, the weak ones clinging to the shadows, the risk of being consumed by the stronger ones overridden by the drive to find the tasty morsel. Stronger ones strode boldly across open fields, posturing, threatening, fighting with one another when two came too close. Many of all levels were defeated and consumed on that journey, but still they came. For there was something undeniably different about this crying soul, a broken strength that promised power to any that could possess it, but only if they moved quickly to take advantage of the weakness.

Solid walls surrounded the small city. The human forces within the walls and atop the watchtowers were a second string of defense. Only the strongest would get close, and they would not likely try when they realized just what the city's first defense was. Such an alluring call, some would take the chance, or not see the danger due to the hunger clouding their primitive minds. The defenders on high watched, not knowing why so many were attempting to invade this night when the overgrown village usually attracted only a few. And they watched as the ones brave enough, desperate enough, or foolish enough to come closer met a fast, frigid death.

Another watched, casually standing high in a dead and bare tree at the edge of the forest. Eyes sharp with power and habitually trained to the distance of the open desert, he watched the weak fall to the strong, the strong fall to their own arrogance. A wicked grin spread across his face as a group of eight made a rush toward the walls. Herd mentality, each hoping the other seven would distract the defender long enough for them to reach the boy. None wondered what they would do then, who would serve as a distraction to cover their retreat. Such was their nature, driven only by hunger with the faintest ability to think about such things as coordinated attacks and surviving past their next meal.

The eight were closing in on the town when the air was torn by a thunderous roar, the tremor of power widening the watcher's grin, making his skin shiver with lust to fight. It was tempting, such an opponent was a rarity worth the effort, worth the chance of death. But it was a great pleasure just to watch as the silvery, serpentine giant came into view, circling the city and bringing cold oblivion to all eight with a graceful dip of the mighty head, leaving several broken sculptures of ice behind, dropping pieces of others it had scooped up with teeth like scimitars. One smooth down-stroke of nearly transparent wings, so precise that a light trail of frost briefly decorated the dirty city wall with crystalline calligraphy as the wingtip passed an inch from the stone, and the legendary creature gained height to search for others suicidal enough to enter its territory.

How such an unimpressive town secured a dragon, one old and powerful even for its kind by the size and aura of it, was another enchanting mystery. Along with the mystery of that boy. There were hundreds, thousands of souls vulnerable and miserable enough to be lured away from their mortality tonight. But a call that could tempt one such as he was rare, as rare as the magnificent being swooping over the city with another wave of power that made his hands itch for his sword.

Below his tree, the strong presence he had been tracking in the back of his mind paused. Far stronger than the fools now shattered into tiny shards of ice, strong enough to have started gaining an identity and intelligence, strong enough to have dared to hunt him, not knowing that his true power was well concealed. Looking down, black and gold eyes refocused to meet the startled eyes of brilliant blue. The creature started to shake in terror as it got a taste of his power. Attracted to the city like all the others, distracted by a glimmer of power and taking a detour for a quick meal, and then it looked up to find a predator more fearsome than the dragon on the horizon.

Waiting to see what the fledgling would do, he laughed at the choice it made. Had it run, he would not have been able to resist the chase, not in his present state of mind with hunger for the nearby boy nearly driving him mad. Had it fought, he would have ended its journey to self-awareness and taken its accumulated power to add to his own. Had it blubbered and quaked, he would have destroyed it without thought and left it to rot, refusing to eat a coward. It made none of these mistakes. Instead, it knelt, flattened face-down in the dirt before lifting slightly on its knees, head bent low, back of its neck exposed.

“Forgive me, Lorde.”

Another booming roar drew his attention, turning his eyes away, turning his back to the fledgling who was no threat. His senses stretched, his eyes narrowed, power bringing the distant vision close and clear. The child's weeping had paused, bruised heart still calling but not as loudly. There, a large manor house of stone, one of the tallest at the edges of the town. In the highest window, a figure had pulled itself up on a windowsill, small arms hoisting the light weight up to lean out precariously, neck craning to gaze at the dark sky.

His breath caught, nostrils flaring and mouth watering at the enticing scent made more intense by the sight of the child. Eyes even more brilliant than those of the creature kneeling on the ground nearby, glistening with tears, red rimmed with the pain of weeping, wide and searching the stars. The child was young, old enough to walk and run, to speak and perhaps to reason, old enough to fend for itself. There was a promise of beauty in that round face, fine features, wide eyes, wild white hair. That promise was bolder with the sad ghost of a smile as the great dragon soared back into view, one dainty hand reaching out into the empty air as if to touch the fearsome beast.

Amazement brought another grin as he watched the sinuous form twist, wings balancing the length of the beast on air as the agile neck bent, red-eyed head stretching toward the seeking hand. The tiny human and the massive dragon were far apart, yet the gesture was clear, and the tiny human’s smile widened beautifully even as fresh tears and a heartrending sob broke through. He could hear that distant whimper clearly, the salt of the tears seasoning the sweet taste of sorrow.

A savage pang of hunger tore through him, eviscerated him, and the image of the child reaching out would forever be etched in his mind, a vicious dream of the ephemeral beauty reaching not to the dragon, but to him. So young to be smiling through such agony, the blinding bright moment of joy and hope while the wounded soul drowned in the darkest despair, it was the most beautiful scene he had witnessed in his long, jaded existence. There was much more to this story than he could read, much more to that child than met the eye.

He heard movement below, the fledgling on its feet, one arm leaning on the tree as the creature quaked with hunger and drooled, eyes locked on the same sight that had enchanted him. It was intolerable to think of any eyes other than his watching that bittersweet drama play out, intolerable that any other heart was moved by the desire to possess the pale beauty with the soul drowning in darkness yet shining blindingly bright. Low and menacing, his growl broke the trance, driving the younger male back to its knees before he leapt down to stand over the prostrate form.

The urge to kill sharpened, but he recognized that it was only the need to protect his personal fantasy. Such weakness. This creature could not comprehend the true value of the boy. It had not been aware long enough to taste the relief from infinity offered by such a novel soul. No, the fledgling only knew hunger and the temptation of power, with barely any appreciation for the transcendent treasure so close and so very far out of reach.

“Resist, young one. Even I could not be certain of victory against an ice dragon.”

Noting the lightening of the sky, he turned to leave, pausing at the voice behind him.

“You are not going after the human, Lorde?”

“Not tonight. No one will succeed tonight. But he is mine. Do not forget it.”

“You are letting me go?”

There was just a hint of derision in that voice now. The fledgling had nerve, bravado returning with the belief that it would escape being eaten. The creature should have stayed silent, for now he reappraised the kneeling figure and found himself tempted. This one may have a chance. A strong and attractive build rather than relying on illusions of massive size or grotesque features, a quick mind to figure out how to survive this encounter, and the audacity to bite back at one far more powerful. His hum of appreciation for two such rare finds in one night made the handsome fledgling flinch.

“Have you found a name for yourself yet?”

A grin as wicked as his own, sharp teeth bared. He considered taking the fledgling, slaking his hunger with a worthy meal. But something about that cocky smirk, the proud lift of the strong jaw with its skeletal frame along one side . . . perhaps this one would last. So few did.

“Grimmjow, my Lorde.”

“One in millions gains a name. Don't throw it away, Grimmjow. Curb your instincts and stay away from that boy. I will not spare you a second time.”

Dawn was coming, and he turned away again, not pausing when the youngling spoke again.

“And what is your name?”

“You can call me Ichigo.”

“Ichigo? Stupid name.” Quiet, but he heard it. Nerve, indeed.

ooooooooooOOOOOOOOOOoooooooooo

“Toshiro! Time for breakfast!”

The old lady looked worriedly up the stairs. It had been three days. She wasn't looking forward to climbing the stairs again, it was too hard on her old bones. But she would if she must. The boy must eat, even if it was only the few bites he took to please her. She sighed and went back to the kitchen to prepare a tray to take up.

Mourning was understandable, expected. The boy had a soft heart. He and his mother had been shunned by everyone in the town. Unwed mothers were outcasts, worse yet when the mother would not reveal the identity of the father, even in gossip. Then there was the child, small, odd looking, otherworldly. Only wealth had shielded them from harsher treatment. Now, without his mother to protect him from the worst of the cruel actions and crueler comments, what would become of the bastard boy with strange looks and a stranger aura about him?

“Good morning, grandmother.”

Steps so quiet, the little socked feet barely whispered on the polished wood. Once her heart had calmed down, she turned with a smile, hiding any reaction to the pale, drawn face, the eyes far too pained for an eight-year-old, red and swollen from weeping, darkly bruised from lack of sleep. The boy had been very close to his mother, the two only having each other with no family or friends. She was not Toshiro's grandmother, just the woman who helped cook and clean and look after the boy, the woman who stayed and tended his mother through the rapid decline to wasting disease and washed her cold body after she succumbed to fever. It was another sign of how kind the child was under his aloof exterior, calling her grandmother.

“Good morning, my boy. I made your favorite, and there's fresh juice. Did you wash your hands?”

A quiet nod. That, at least, was one thing she had never had to worry about. Even in his depression, Toshiro was fastidiously clean. She sat a plate in front of him, chatting about the little farm where she got the eggs. It was one of the boy's favorite errands, the man who kept the chickens ignoring the child as long as he was paid. Being ignored made it a pleasant chore, a place he could go, play with the animals for a little while, gather the eggs, and feel a sense of accomplishment.

Whether her words were heard, she couldn't tell. The fork was picked up, bites were taken, all in calm and polite silence, expressionless. She would continue working here if she could and take care of the child, make sure the city fees were paid so they could not try to evict him, see to it he continued to learn. She just hoped she lived long enough to see him through to an age where he could stand against the harsh world on his own.

Toshiro did listen to the aimless chatter, knowing that she was only trying to make things normal. A new normal. A world without his mother's bright laughter and cheerful stories, the games she would make up when no one would play with him, the make-believe adventures she would spin out of thin air. He was trying, though all he wanted was to go back to sleep until nightfall. Today, at least, he had to try.

They would probably be the only two at the burial. Even the priest would not bother if it weren't for the money he would collect. He was not ignorant. He knew that the neighbors were relieved to see his mother dead, and they all hoped the city would chase out the orphaned bastard. His mother had tried to keep him from hearing the spite and hate, tried to explain it away, and always smiled and laughed in the face of their insults.

The sound of laughter, shouts, quick feet, he looked to the window to see the group of children running and pushing each other, playing with a ball perhaps, there and gone as the commotion moved down the street. They played and carried on as if nothing had happened, as if the world had not grown darker and more painful than he could stand, and he tried to remember why he should not hate them for their callous ignorance. His hand had fallen still some time ago, the meal not half eaten.

“Why not try the juice, Toshiro?”

“I think I'll go to the garden.”

He got up and left, sure she said something else but not hearing it. The bright light and warmth of the sun wasn't welcome when he only wanted night and cold. But he needed to get used to it again, and the private garden was the best place for it, mostly shaded by one big walnut tree. He was glad their . . . his house was on the edge of the town, the city wall serving as the back wall of the house as it did for many others. His bedroom window looked out on the world, just over the level of the wall, and he could pretend the town did not exist, gazing out toward the distant forest across the fields.

And when he was lucky, he could see the dragon. It had been very active the night of his mother's death. He knew that was not a good thing, that the dragon was hunting, that its presence meant demons were prowling near the city. Yet he was glad of it. The dragon made him feel safe, and he knew it was foolish that he thought of the dragon as a friend. Sometimes, it seemed like the dragon felt the same, the way the red eyes turned to him, the beautiful wings spread to hover for a moment to look back at him, the only time he ever saw the dragon pause.

ooooooooooOOOOOOOOOOoooooooooo

This human world was not of great interest to Ichigo. He would stroll here when he felt the need for a change of scenery, and every now and then would find a momentary distraction. Like this one that had drawn him back again. At first, he would stop by the dismal city whenever he happened to think of it. Long stretches of time went by before he would find himself watching the walls, listening to the distant heartbeat, humming with the rich energy of the starry-eyed child. More and more often he returned, until he found himself drawn each night the worlds aligned to the nondescript town with the remarkable guardian, quiet again now that the predators had thinned. The boy was no longer lost in despair. Grief, yes, deep and omnipresent, but his strength had returned, and his soul no longer cried out for someone to come take it away, no longer was tempted to run into the night. Well, perhaps a little tempted, but not enough to draw his kind in droves as it had before.

The child rarely slept, reading by candlelight or tending a garden by moonlight. He hated when it rained, the shutters closed, the boy inside. But then, one clear night when the new moon made the stars bright, the boy climbed out his window onto the ledge of the city wall. His heart nearly stopped, muscles tensing to sprint, to race the dragon, to catch his prize as it jumped down to freedom, to him, to death.

It was not to be, the small form walking confidently to the edge of the house and climbing up to the roof. Laughing at himself, he relaxed again. The child spread a blanket he had carried with him, stretching out on the rooftop with his head cradled in his hands, gazing up at the white-lit stars. He settled on the thick branch, leaning back against the rough trunk, gazing at the white-haired child, power erasing the distance so that it seemed as if he could touch the untamed locks, the pale cheek tinged pink with cold night air.

Time was also not of great interest to Ichigo. He could not say how long he had existed; a long time to be sure. He could not say how many nights he had watched, any more than he could say how long he sat and observed the fallen star on the distant roof. Intriguing, how the boy managed to keep his attention even after that delicious scent of longing for death had dissipated. He had become enchanted with sharing senses with the little one, so many desires roiling on the surface, so deep and calm beneath. Tonight, the child was content, quiet, and he hummed as his own contentment synchronized, though far away, and he lamented that the little human was unaware of the sharing.

Thus, it was not only his own rush of excitement he felt when the silvery form rose like mist from the eastern side of the city. Silent and slow, not on the hunt, the massive dragon was a delicate specter, nearly floating weightless as it glided over the rooftops, wide wings fanning gently. The great dragon did not move too close, though its focus was quite clear as it slowly circled the rooftop, nose overlapping tail to spiral in a halo above the delighted boy, weaving up and down to form loops and curves, a silver scrollwork on the black sky. The human looked even smaller, standing with thin arms stretched up, white hair, white robe catching the starlight. Tiny, bare feet moved gracefully to turn in the opposite direction of the shining serpent, tiny toes curling to hold the roof, tiny tendons standing out as tiny heels lifted, arched and dropped. The quiet laugh like silver bells rang in his ears and flooding his senses with pleasure.

Mesmerized, once again he had to stop the urge to move forward, forcing stillness. The mystery of this boy who danced so lightly with a dragon as a partner was the greatest diversion he had ever known, a blinding flare in endless darkness. He regretted seeing the icy loops break as the dragon pulled out of the spiral to move away to the far side of the city, silently descending to disappear behind the wall. The boy did not regret, and a new feeling flooded his mind, had been there for some time now. Happiness.

It was not a feeling he was very familiar with. His own happiness was a small thing, an vague and unsought thing, found in solitude and battle. Human happiness was nearly as rare. He only noticed humans when they were close enough to him, and when they were close they felt anything but happy. Fear, pain, shock, despair, and rarely, from those who sought death, gratitude. Those were the emotions humans showed him. Rightly so. He had never known such a simple thing as a human being happy could affect him so strongly.

Ichigo wondered then if this obsession was a good idea, if it would soften him. But the lure was still too great. Such a distraction was a prize itself, even if he did not get to eat the child and join that complex soul to his own. He would tire of it eventually. The childish sense of wonder would die. The mind now so open to the night and all its beauty, it would fade, it would harden and close. The elfin boy would become an abhorrent adult in the blink of his tired eyes.

So, he returned when the gates allowed. For how long, he did not know. Long enough that the child was becoming noticeably bigger. How fast did human children grow? He had never considered it. Children were of little interest, souls without power, without depth, passed over for richer prey. Until this one, complex and alluring.

Still a child, though, still captivating, still alone. He understood loneliness. The powerful of his kind were almost always alone, coming together rarely and briefly with a sort of allergic attraction that soon drove them to part again. The other children of the city were never alone, especially at night. There were adults and other children surrounding them almost constantly. In his experience, that was the way humans were in all worlds, possessive of their young. Why, then, was this child alone every night, the sole occupant of the large home?

Nights when the dragon came to look in on the boy were not frequent, at least that he witnessed, but never again did he see that beautiful dance. It might have happened again on a night when he was not present, when none of his kind could walk this land. That was unfortunate. If he could only spend every night and day here, he would not miss such beauty, would not miss the overflowing emotions of the child when the dragon lingered. Even the briefest visit of the dragon brought that piercing happiness, a feeling that lasted the entire night, unfamiliar and enchanting, and he basked in it until dawn or until the little one curled up and closed his remarkable eyes.

Others came occasionally. He did not stop them, rather watched to see if they would make an attempt to invade the city, watched as the dragon froze them or shredded them. Other souls from within the city were taken from time to time, when some accident or desperate choice led them to be outside of the ring of the dragon’s protection. Ichigo did not partake, too strong to be interested in the insignificant power of the common human when such a rare delicacy was just out of reach.

It was a mild surprise then, that the boy continued to hold his interest. He was glad of it, and he found himself thinking of the human when he roamed other worlds or rested in his own desert home. Time passed. Years passed. And still he was drawn back to this world, to his northern star, the one new constant in the dull stretch of time. _Toshiro._ He learned that name one night from an ancient crone that sometimes was present in the home for a brief time near sunset. His Toshiro. His lonely Toshiro with a mind filled with stars.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooops, I apparently posted as complete. Obviously, this is multi-chapter, and long. 
> 
> We do some time-skipping, just so you don't get confused, from our first meeting of Toshiro at age 8, to a slice of life at age 11 to get to know Toshiro and see that Ichigo is still creeping, to age 13 when they meet.

“Toshiro! It’s time for lunch!”

She thought she would go home early today, as most days. The boy cooked his own dinner now, and there was not much cleaning and mending to do when it was only one quiet child who kept everything tidy without her help. But she still came every day to make breakfast and lunch, because no child should be completely alone, particularly this one. While she did not join the hurtful gossip, she could not deny the child was strange. His mother had been, too, odd and beautiful, willful and fey.

“Toshiro! The papers will still be there. Come down!”

Honestly, what kind of eleven-year-old works nonstop from breakfast to lunch, then sleeps the rest of the day away to stay up reading and working all night? The kind that can’t walk down the street without adults cursing him and children throwing clods of dirt. The kind that had stopped being able to cry, let alone play. The kind of rotten child that still scared her into a heart-attack with his spooky ability to just appear out of nowhere.

“Good afternoon, grandmother. Thank you for the meal.”

Too polite. Too refined. Too adult.

“A special treat this time, the first of the watermelon from the market. I hope they didn’t rush, harvest too soon and you lose all the sweetness. I wish your garden was big enough for a vine or two. But those yummy beans, such a good use of the wall as a trellis.”

He nodded as they ate, forcing a smile and replying when necessary. Toshiro was used to the chatter, and he tried to give her what she wanted, some sign that he was not miserable. He was not miserable, in fact. He could not help the reality that he didn’t behave as other children did, playful, hyper, selfish. It wasn’t an option for him, so he behaved the way he needed to in order to survive and find some balance in his life. Childish things being out of his reach, adult things had filled the void.

He knew it worried her, and he knew that worry came at least partly from affection. Pity, yes, and a sense of obligation, but also there was affection as one would have for an old dog or a lame horse, a thing that no longer fits. Not love. He returned the affection in his way. His mother was the only one he had ever loved, and he could not love his ‘grandmother’ that way. She would leave him. She left him the day his mother died. She left him every day. She was old and when she tired of dealing with the town freak she would leave for good. Or she would die.

Offering a brief laugh at one of her sillier stories about the baker near the main square, a woman who had her husband chase him out of the shop when he was eight and tried to buy bread, he saw the worry lessen in her eyes. She did not hear the bitterness, instead feeling a small sense of accomplishment at making him laugh. Smile, chuckle, these things he could do. He did them to make her happy, and maybe she would not vanish from his life quite so soon. He even returned her hug before she bustled out, gathering the coins he had left on the counter to pay her for another week of work he did not need her to do, and he wondered if she would be back tomorrow as he made his way up the stairs.

One of the empty rooms had become his office. It had taken him a while to figure out what he could do, what a despised child could offer that would be accepted. Once he had, it did not take nearly as long for things to fall into place. Toshiro’s mother had taught him incessantly, feeding both his craving for attention and his deep love of knowledge. The world was far greater than this city, this empty house. And he knew that better than anyone. His mother indulged him, bought every book from every traveling merchant. But not many books made their way this far from true cities. Years of collecting every book, map, and scroll no matter how ragged or how useless the topic seemed built the largest collection in the town, enough to turn the entire second floor into a small library.

Many adults could not read well if at all, learning being a luxury beyond the reach of the lower classes who worked from the time they were old enough to hold a simple tool. It started with the old farmer. Over the years, he had heard the man ranting more than once about the taxes and registrations required by the city, saw him take letters and forms to the market where he paid a scholar his hard-earned money to read and write.

So, one day as he took the basket of eggs he had collected up to the porch to pay, he screwed up his courage and made an offer. Now he did not pay for eggs, and the farmer lost a few coins worth of eggs instead of the silver charged by the scholar in the market. It was not long before the farmer mentioned a friend of his, a smith who needed bills of sale and advertisements made. For that he received some coins and repair of some of the gardening tools, a handful of nails, a patch for the old copper kettle. And the smith asked him to help again a few weeks later, and a couple of weeks after that. Word spread slowly, and now Toshiro had a short list of people who needed someone to read or write, do figures and fill out forms.

A different kind of smile, genuine and content, settled on his face as he looked at his desk, small stacks of paper waiting for his attention, the modest beginnings of what he hoped to turn into a thriving enterprise. And it was worth more than the traded goods and the money. Money he would need eventually, the funds left by his mother would last many years but not forever. But the real pleasure was knowledge. He had no idea when he started just how much he would learn. From the hidden details of people’s lives when he read or wrote letters for them, to how weather charts from neighboring cities affected the decision of what to plant this year and what grade of iron was needed to make a good horseshoe. Every new task brought a new discovery, and he reveled in the work and the learning.

It was his new normal, work until exhausted, tend the garden and clean to quiet his mind, then sleep as long as he wished. More often than not, he woke at sunset or soon after and made dinner. If he still had work he might do some, or read, or tend to chores. And when the weather was good, the skies clear, he would climb up on the roof, or in the winter when the branches were bare, he would climb into the tree in the garden and just let his mind drift with the stars, far away from the city.

He was not miserable. Not particularly happy, but as content as he could be when he still missed his only family. The long nights were the best, the world quiet apart from random voices and the barking of dogs. Even those noises faded as the dark deepened. He found it odd that he felt less alone at night when everyone hid in their homes and prayed for dawn, when he could easily pretend there was no city, no other people to invade his thoughts. Maybe it was that he and the dragon were the only ones aware; his infrequent visitor never slept at night as far as Toshiro could tell. Maybe it was the occasional hoot or howl from the forest across the open pasture, where he found his eyes drawn more often.

Whatever it was, as the years slowly passed, something about the night made him feel less lonely.

 

ooooooooooOOOOOOOOOOoooooooooo

 

Something had changed, he knew it the moment his boot touched the earth. He ran, using his power to cover huge stretches of ground with each step, the long-lost scent of despair lighting his nerves on fire. His Toshiro was hurting, not as black and endless as the first night he had noticed the boy, but powerful. It had been several nights since he was able to come, but he knew the wound was fresh by the sharpness of the grief. And there was anger, fury, such hostility never felt from the child before. He poured more power into his legs and feet, and he raced.

Fortunate that he came with the setting of the sun, fortunate that he was faster than any he knew. He had time to absorb the shock before the others arrived. _Gone_. The immense aura of icy power warding off his kind was gone. A new defense, he could see it clearly, a shield of spirit energy rising a few feet outside the walls and encasing the city under a dome, shimmering in ghostly pale ripples. He licked his lips, practically tasting the boy's succulent soul laced with pain and longing and wrath, so sweet and rich he moaned in anticipation. _The dragon was gone_.

Rage and sorrow emanated in waves from the open window, the pacing figure sliding in and out of view, separated from him by only a spirit barrier. Now, he could lure the sweet child into his arms and learn if the boy tasted as bright and bitter and refreshing and complex as he imagined. Now, that enticing and inexplicable soul could become part of him. His Toshiro would no longer be sad, no longer lonely, no longer subject to the pain of living.

No more nights of peace watching the stars, no more spikes of delight while reading, no more contented hums as thin fingers dug into rich soil. No longer his Toshiro.

The first arrivals distracted him from the disturbing turn of his thoughts, the uncomfortable emptiness in his gut that replaced hunger. He waited, he watched. Ichigo did not gain his name by being foolish, though rushing blindly forward was something he could not resist doing often, the thrill that perhaps he would be hurt or killed for his rashness too much to resist. But he would not risk it now, not when there was a matchless meal to be won. Two came first, strong enough to speed here from the gates ahead of the competition. One was, perhaps, one powerful soul away from evolution to fledgling. And a singularly powerful soul beckoned. It turned on its rival, and he watched disinterestedly the escape of the lesser hunter.

The lovely eyes did not look out and see the predator coming, narrowed in anger and dry of tears though he scented the depth of crushing sadness in the boy. Every muscle tensed, power gathered to attack, to defend his prize, his Toshiro, _only his_ , but he waited. The creature reached out, sharp-clawed hand seeking to dig into stone so that it could climb. He was sprinting for the wall in case the creature survived, timing so critical, as the barrier lit up, a flash of white and an ear-piercing scream, the scent of burning flesh. He stopped, 10 feet from the falling corpse, within seconds reduced to ash that continued to burn with white light that was drawn into the shield, the dead creature's power fueling the barrier that killed it.

A gasp, a surge of surprise and a hint of fear dampened quickly by curiosity. He looked up, feeling as if it was his own body engulfed in flame as wide turquoise irises saw him, locked onto him, the parted lips falling open in an expression of astonished wonder. The beautiful child he had watched for so long was finally seeing him, staring at him, focused solely on him. A rush of warm pleasure washed through his mind, through his veins. He could not help but smile as the boy leaned, hands on the windowsill, leaned toward him.

_Brave soul, curious soul,_ _come away, come to me._

Timeless, each stood and contemplated the other, the alien. Toshiro knew what he was seeing. _Demon_. It looked human, except for the eyes and the strange shifting shadows, but there was no doubt, though he had only glimpsed demons and none looked remotely like this one. The second one he never saw, only heard it scream and looked out to find it already dead, nothing but a pile of blackened bone turning to ash. Had it looked like this one? A shame then, that something so resplendent ended in such ugliness.

The demon straightened, standing tall and smiling, _smiling_ at him. He blinked as the being cocked its head, and he barely resisted the urge to smile back. It was wondrous, and not at all what he expected. The hair, for starters, orange not being a color he pictured on evil incarnate. The smile was sinister enough with the hint of fangs, as were the black and yellow eyes, but the rest of his face was . . . handsome. The tight fitting black and red clothing left little to the imagination . . . was it black and red? It seemed to shift, to ripple, almost like fur in the wind, or the ruffling of feathers baffling the eye. Black to charcoal to gray, red to burgundy to violet, hugging all along long legs, wrapping close around lean muscles.

A chuckle jolted him out of his reverie, the deep melody seeming to sound just by his ear, as clear as if the demon was in the room. He glared, reminding himself that demons are tricksters, seducers, eaters of flesh and devourers of souls.

“You are blushing, my dear.”

His jaw dropped again, warnings forgotten. Its voice was velvet, sliding along his skin as sure as touch. If he had not been blushing, he surely was now. He should shut the window. He should retreat. He need not fear, any moment now the dragon would come. With that thought came a stabbing pain in his heart that broke the spell the demon had on his senses. The dragon would not come, ever again.

“Oh, sweet one, do not cry. Not on our first meeting. What can I do to take away the hurt?”

“You can leave,” he snapped, glaring again. “I am not weak prey, demon.”

“Of course, you are not. One who was weak would not stand at the window to converse with a . . . demon. But I have distracted you, at least, from your grief. I will console myself with that achievement.”

Ichigo felt them, the three that thought they were sneaking up behind him. He was not surprised by them but by the warning called out from the soft little human they had all come to kill.

“Behind you!”

He turned slowly. One froze, his appearance showing what his carefully contained power had not. Two tried to flee. A casual flick of his hand, no need to draw his sword for such, and a wave of black disintegrated the trio. Others were coming to interrupt, but they would slow when they tasted the power he had used. A fraction of his strength, enough to make most reconsider the hunger driving them on. He turned back to the eyes wide again, full of amazement.

“Thank you, my dear. I fear I will be busy tonight, defending you.”

“What? Why would you . . . what do you want?”

He smiled again, eyeing the flustered human with something akin to fondness. The boy did not disappoint, rallying through the shock of being so close to a dreaded predator. And so lovely, every movement carelessly graceful, the voice clear and full of intelligence. Pretty Toshiro knew what he was. Great men had fled at the sight of him, powerful warriors' voices shook when they spoke to him. Not this boy.

“I do not want much. At the moment, the only desire I have is to continue conversing with you. But there are many others who wish to share your company, and I do not care for their presence. Do you know, this barrier, is it reliable? Can it withstand a hundred such as that one?”

The boy blinked, following the line of his boot as he gestured disrespectfully at the black spot of charred grass, all that remained of the demon he never saw. The reply came without thought, without anger as the curious mind was distracted.

“I do not know. The lord and the city council bought the services of a mage that has made shields for many cities. It was only done today.”

Toshiro thought perhaps that was a monumentally stupid thing to say as one orange brow raised. The demon walked closer, strides controlled and graceful, eyes never leaving him. His mind told him to back up. Something else told him to leap forward. So, he stayed perfectly still as the demon drew a long, black sword from a silver-chased black sheath. Stupid, staring wide-eyed at the demon only to be blinded as flashes like lightning arching across the curved surface to strike below him. He hissed and rubbed at his eyes, trying to blink away the pain and the brightness. Was it dead? Nothing but smoldering black? Why did the thought of the demon dying that way make him anxious, leaning farther forward in an attempt to see?

“Demon?” he called when no movement could be seen through the white afterimage, hearing a faint sizzling that may be burning remains. “Demon, are you alive?”

Sighing as he examined the smoking but undamaged tip of his sword, Ichigo resigned himself to not acquiring his meal tonight. Not unless he could talk the quick-witted child down, or terrorize the human, break his mind with cruel words and nightmares until the tormented soul sought to end itself. And he did not want to talk to his Toshiro that way, not now. After so long watching the child, learning his habits and likes, sharing his emotions, he was greatly pleased to simply speak and be spoken to, greatly pleased that his presence had somewhat quelled the sorrow the little human's heart was drowning in. It was annoying, but he felt a little giddy when the boy looked at him unflinching and saw the predator that had been stalking him for . . . oh, who knows how long?

He knelt closer to the barrier, placing a palm on the ground. Reaching into the earth, he found the barrier quite sound, a thorough job, not one that could be bypassed by simply going underneath. There were roots here outside the barrier, a tree that had known his Toshiro's touch frequently. His power caressed the roots, encouraging them. Soon a new sapling would grow on his side of the wall.

“I am alive, little human,” he backed into clearer view as he spoke. The reaction was interesting; the boy seemed relieved. “And it seems you will live through the night, as well.”

“What?”

Relief turned to alarm, and he had to grin. Such short lives, here and gone like a sudden storm, and yet they always seemed surprised when they contemplated death. He scanned the distance, sending a warning pulse of power to keep them away.

“What did you mean, demon? Why would anyone want to kill me, and tonight in particular?”

He sucked a breath in through his teeth, wondering again why he was bothering with this chat. Entertainment. If nothing else, he owed the boy for the bright distraction he had unwittingly provided in the long emptiness of existence. And it was a new amusement, watching the child’s expressions, feeling his emotions running haywire with each new shock.

“You cannot see them, can you? Out there, in the shadows, in the forest, they are lining up for their chance. They’ve come for you, my sweet, to answer your beautiful despair. They’ve come to rip you apart, to feast on your bones and claim your soul.”

Entertaining indeed, watching the color drain from the pretty face as the brilliant eyes searched the distance futilely, then came back to his. He expected the boy to panic, or to demand to know who or what he was talking about when truly, the boy knew perfectly well that he spoke of his own kind. His turn to be surprised again by how quickly the human reached the inevitable conclusion.

“And you, demon? You wish to . . . rip me apart?”

His grin widened, fangs flashing. The boy took a step back but still looked him in the eye. How delightful.

“My sweet, I’ve dreamed of little else for years.”

 

ooooooooooOOOOOOOOOOoooooooooo

 

Trembling, he opened his eyes, remembering stumbling back before turning to flee, the small closet, as far from the window as possible, no windows, solid walls, heavy door. His hands shook so much that it took three tries to light the candle on the wall, and his eyes screwed shut again, not wanting to turn around, see what was behind him, confront the shadows. But he forced it, eyes falling on an assortment of the most mundane objects, a pail with some folded rags inside, a broom, a metal box with various nails and small sundries. A stack of shabby books almost to the ceiling. Poor writing or dull subjects to have been relegated to the closet, but they gave him something else to think about for just a second, and he took a deep breath.

Toshiro didn’t know what to call it. Panic? Terror? It was stupid, the action of not only a coward but a moron. He could be no safer in this closet than he was at the window. That demon was powerful, anyone with an ounce of self-preservation could sense that, even without the thing killing three others with the casual wave of a hand. One more wall, one more door, it wouldn’t matter in the least. And he could learn no more about the demon from here, so here was not the place he needed to be. But his body would not stop shaking. His feet would not move.

_They’ve come to rip you apart, feast on your bones and claim your soul._

His back hit the stacked books and he let out a shrill scream as they tumbled, clapping his hands over his mouth a second later when he realized it was just books. No use, trying to force strength was just making him weaker, his eyes locked on the door as his knees gave out. He slid down, landing heavily, arms wrapping around his legs and burying his face in his knees. It didn’t matter, after all, if he watched the door. Seeing the demon enter or not, it wouldn’t change the outcome.

_And you, demon? You wish to . . . rip me apart?_

He never knew that he would care, never thought life meant much to him. Or was it the manner of ending, the promise of violence and agony? And the magnificent demon would smile as he was torn to pieces, would drink his screams as it drank his blood. Why did that thought hurt as much as the fear of pain?

“ _Never speak to a demon_ ,” his mother had warned him, “ _and never, ever listen. If you do not listen, they can only kill you. Their words can do so much worse_.”

 

ooooooooooOOOOOOOOOOoooooooooo

 

“Toshiro?”

She looked around, not seeing the boy though he had obviously been here recently. Covered plates, food still warm, even fresh bread with cinnamon. By the sink, the washed pans and plates, the boy had cooked, baked, ate and cleaned, the sun barely up. The baker would not sell him bread, so he had found recipes on how to bake it. The seamstress would not patch his clothes, so he had taught himself to sew. The carpenter would not come to his house, so he had learned to build and repair.

It was an odd mix of feelings that washed through her as she made her slow way into the living room, debating whether to climb the stairs, whether she could even make it to the third-floor office. She pitied the lonely child. And she was proud of him, proud of his growing independence, proud of his work even while she thought it was too much for a child. But she was also sad to think he no longer needed her. She knew that the few things she did for him were things he deliberately left undone, just to give her some sense of purpose.

Lately she had been worried about him, more than usual. Though he shared little about his thoughts, she had known the boy his entire life. It was obvious he was fond of the dragon. She understood how one could be fond of a creature, even love it in a way. She had a cat, after all, and spoiled the damned thing to the point where it wouldn’t blink if a mouse ran across its lazy nose. But what reward could the boy get for his adoration? The beast was leashed evil, only slightly better than the nightmare creatures that came in the night.

His mother, too, had been fascinated by that monster, which any rational person would find terrifying. When she was younger, she would stay through the day and into the evening with the little family, defying fear by walking home in the well-lit dusk. The young woman seemed to know, as did the boy, both sets of eyes lighting up, both heads turning as one, both rushing up the stairs to find a window every time the dragon flew. It gave her the shivers just to think about it.

She, along with most people she knew, was glad the beast was gone. That horrible roar, for one, shaking you right out of bed and good luck getting to sleep again knowing that thing was out there eating demons. The herders were glad, too. Though the dragon hunted far afield and never killed livestock, the herds ran themselves thin when the beast flew overhead. And then there was the money. The small reduction in taxes was a relief to everyone, the dragon’s fee much steeper than the mage’s.

But the boy would not see these things. He was barely thirteen, not old enough to be as wise as he pretended to be, why should he see these things? When she heard the news, she had come to see him, but he had not answered the door. Though she had a key, she respected his privacy and made her slow way back home through the excited crowds gathered to watch the dragon depart and the great mage work his magic. Then she had barricaded herself in her home, as everyone else had, just in case the barrier was not what was promised. After all, if the entire town was wiped out by demons, the mage did not have to worry about being punished for swindling the city.

“Toshiro! Are you up there, my boy?”

He sighed, slowly stretching his legs to wake them up before climbing down. It hadn’t been long, he wanted more time alone, and he had thought the prepared breakfast would be clue enough. It was hard to stay irritated, though, not at the only person who talked to him like a normal human being. Somewhat, anyway. The old lady certainly did not understand him, did not even try to. She just kept expecting him to one day turn into an average person with average concerns. He wondered often why she continued to come when it was increasingly obvious that she only here out of some misplaced sense of duty. Under a thin veneer of familiarity, she was just as wary of him as the rest of the townspeople.

“In the garden, grandmother,” he called loudly. Her hearing was not what it used to be. “I’ll come in.”

That was starting to change, though, much to his surprise. It had begun with the blacksmith, a man well respected throughout the city. Toshiro collected the scrawled notes on jobs done to create detailed bills of sale. His meticulous nature had increased profits, accounting for every ounce of metal and every minute of time that went into each job. The pleased smith and his crew started to trust him, and now he spent a half-day there once a week, balancing the books and improving the business overall with clever advertisements, sensible scheduling, and better sourcing of materials. Part of his payment was learning, working with the metal in what ways his small body and nimble fingers could manage.

Then, customers had started spotting him. A few glares, some nasty comments, threats to take their business elsewhere, all he ignored. But when the smith happened to overhear a particularly hateful rant as he gathered papers as quickly as he could so he could make his escape, the staff milling about pretending not to hear, all hell had broken loose. Toshiro had watched, wide-eyed, as the usually placid man tore into each of his three subordinates for being cowards and fools, fired his lead apprentice for allowing such behavior when his back was turned, and then rounded on the customer who cowered and nearly pissed himself at the threatening tone and impolite words to get the fuck away from the shop and never return.

The burly smith had turned back with a wide smile and a completely relaxed attitude, coaxing everyone who still had a job to get back to it. He said nothing to Toshiro about the incident. Quite enough had been said. Shortly after that, the smith had gifted him a light sword and arranged some simple instruction in return for taking on some clerical work for a retired guardsman. He doubted he'd ever be a warrior, but basic self-defense abilities would be welcome.

“Boy! You’ll ruin your clothes doing that. Why on earth would anyone want to climb a tree?”

He sighed again as his feet hit the ground, composed his features and turned with what he hoped was an easy smile. There was far too much on his mind. If he didn’t act normal, she would just add to the problem with her drama, treating him like an infant. He ignored her fussing.

“Good morning, grandmother. Would you like me to make some hot tea to go with breakfast?”

“I’m old, not dead. You’re up early. I can’t remember the last time you made me breakfast.”

“I slept too much yesterday, woke up early with a lot of energy.”

It was a lie, and Toshiro was sure she knew that even without looking at the bruising around his eyes. He had barely slept since that night, and only during the daylight hours. She would think it was only because of the dragon, and he let her believe it. If he told her the truth, that he’d chatted with a demon who was hunting him, it would probably be the end of her. He spoke again before she could start her needling, her digging.

“Granny, do you think you could go to the market with me today?”

“Hmm? Oh, certainly, my boy, but . . .”

“Thank you, I’ve never been any good at haggling, and every one of them knows it.”

Another lie. When she was with him, he could get much more. They didn’t chase him away with curses out of respect for the elder. And lately, she needed his arm to lean on, his hands to carry so she could do her own shopping. He was starting to take care of her more than she took care of him, but he could still mask that by requesting her help, making it seem like he still needed care rather than the other way around.

He continued to divert her attention, evade her questions. She would drop it in another day or two, he hoped. He had much more important things to think about. All the books and scrolls that made any mention of demons, even trivial and fanciful stories were gathering in one pile now, in the office where he had rolled out a small futon to spend the nights reading, a room with no windows.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

Time was not of great interest to Ichigo. It required a bit of effort, he found, to keep track of the nights. Time was unreliable, like the inconstant moon, varying world to world and confounding his attempts. The third night since he had spoken with the boy the gates aligned and he returned to find the town more peaceful, the siren’s call silent so that only the random predator came looking for any strays in the night. His senses sought and found the boy, still hurting but with that numbness of those who move on without letting the wound heal. And the pain was under layers of anxiety, not something he was accustomed to feeling from his Toshiro, usually so determined.

The window was closed. Every window he could see from his side of the wall, closed, shuttered by heavy wood and iron, but this window had never been closed until he spoke with his prey. Ridiculous. If he could breach the barrier, which he could not without a dangerous and potentially fatal drain of his power, then what would wood and iron do? Other than deny him the sight of the boy and make it very clear that the human did not wish to see him or speak to him. But that was not exactly true. So experienced was he at reading the child’s emotions after so many nights, he detected the bright streak of curiosity, the underlying longing. Longing for the dragon, for him, or simply relief from the loneliness that had long been present?

Only a few were drawn to the city while he watched, and he dispatched them before they reached the barrier, before any hint of them could disturb his Toshiro. He did not speak as he watched, now so much closer. He did not send temptation or threats to force the human's surrender, did not send nightmares to wreck the bright mind, did not call with words though he could, only calling with his will.

_Come, bright soul. Come run to me, then run from me, and I shall catch you._

Two more of this world's nights he was away, returning to the closed window. Four long nights elsewhere before the gates aligned again. Only one wasted night, and he decided to perch in the young tree that had fed on his energy to grow, close enough for some branches to sway in front of the window, some branches to stretch across the wall causing subtle ripples in the spirit barrier. There was a sharp hum of hostility from the barrier through the slow veins of the tree, not quite comfortable but easily ignored, and he laid his hand on the largest branch and willed it to be strong. He could see into the garden. But his Toshiro did not come into the garden, did not open the window.

He would not have taken back his words to change this unbearable situation. It was the truth; not that he was above lying, no, far from it. The memory of the shock and horror taking over those lovely eyes, the pained gasp, the quick retreat stumbling like a new colt, and then that short but delectable scream that made his heart race, that memory was well worth an exile. And Ichigo was certain it would be temporary. The window would open again. Those bright eyes would see him again.

The human would not understand, though some humans were drawn to torment their fellows almost as badly as a demon could torment. It was his nature. He was not unaware of the cruelty of it from a human perspective, not unaware that such mental torture was not entirely necessary. But it was too pleasing to earn true reactions, to understand and be understood, to be seen as he truly was without the cloying charm and seduction that was so much easier to use.

The boy could not resist it. His Toshiro was clever and curious, too much so, unable to turn away from the unknown for long no matter how dangerous. The child would come to him fully aware that it was death and pain, cruelty and brutal truth that he courted. He shivered in anticipation, willing it to happen soon and end his hunger, willing it to not happen soon, to continue to provide distraction from the monotony of eternity.

Tempted to speak, to scream his grief at being shut out, he stayed silent and counted. Was it twelve nights now? Twenty? Something like that, he thought, the idea of time too slippery for him to be sure despite his efforts. He felt the familiar combination of calm concentration and inquisitiveness, suppressed seconds of anger, anxiety, surprise, pleasure, that sweet yearning. He knew these soothing and irritating feelings; the child was reading, always reading, lost in a world of ideas and thoughts of other men, other humans. If he thought too much about it, he would become angry, the only response he had to counter unwelcome jealousy.

His Toshiro was so close, so very far away, the window closed.

 

ooooooooooOOOOOOOOOOoooooooooo

 

“Demon?”

When no response came, he wondered if he had miscalculated. There was a cycle, he had learned, to the nights when demons appeared. It had always been rumored, an old wives’ tale that never proved accurate. It should be much better understood and studied, the advantages of knowing which nights were safe were many; it could heavily impact society if there was a reliable timetable. But the three different accounts of it did not agree, though they aligned enough with his own observation to give him some confidence that this was a night when demons walked the earth.

Maybe the demon had moved on. Likely it was lying when it implied it had known of him for years, just a taunt to frighten him further. It had certainly worked. The very thought that a demon pursued him for a moment was terrifying, let alone years without him ever suspecting. It had a grain of truth to it, not just in the tone of the demon’s words, but in the timing. The creature could have been stalking from afar, only closing in when the dragon was no longer a threat.

Though he knew this was the most fortunate turn of events he could wish for, he couldn’t help the regret the disappearance of the demon. Almost a month had passed. Other than his work and the most minimal of daily chores he could get away with, every moment had been spent reading everything he could find on demons. It was no scholars’ library he had amassed, but he had found dozens of books with some mention of demons, three books and two scrolls focused on demonology, and countless accumulated stories that probably had little basis in fact.

And of course, there was religion. Religious texts had much to say on the subject of demons, no two chapters agreeing on anything resembling a fact. It was all bad poetry and scaring the wicked into submission with tales of devils and hell where the faithful always escape the punishment they deserved if they were obedient to mother church. Who could believe such things when it was a known fact that demons were a relatively recent addition to the world? Of course, the priests had an answer to this, that the demons were a scourge sent by the Gods to restore faith and punish evildoers. Rubbish.

What he had learned was simple. No one had any real idea backed by evidence, no idea what a demon was, where they came from, what they wanted if anything apart from killing, nothing. Demons had not always plagued this world, the first encounters recorded only around 150 years ago with a surge in numbers 124 years ago. Since then, nothing but struggle and the two disastrous wars against demonkind that had wrecked all civilization. Finally, the retreat to daytime cities where humans huddled like mice in burrows. Yet they knew appallingly little of the predator higher than them on the food chain. Perhaps someone did, the great scholars, the mages, the kings. But here where ordinary people lived in paralyzing fear of the night, they knew nothing.

And that was what prompted him to call out louder. He stared suspiciously at the walnut tree to his left, a lovely tree taller than his house, which had not existed a fortnight earlier.

“Demon, are you there?”

One breath, and he started to relax.

“I have missed you, my sweet.”

His heart lurched at the sensual whisper in his ear. Fear, fine, he could handle fear. It was perfectly reasonable when you realize that you’ve been going about your life with a demon outside your window, a demon who dreams of ripping your body apart. That thought made him angry, and his eyes focused on the rustling of branches, the sudden movement. Graceful and silent as a cat, the demon landed lightly and moved a little away from the wall to where they could see each other clearly.

Anger and fear dropped away. He had forgotten how alluring the demon was. Many of the stories mentioned it, that demons could appear beautiful, could bewitch the senses even if they were hideous monsters underneath the glamour. Every demon he had seen and almost all sketches of them in the books were of creatures like distorted animals, claws and fangs, strange proportions, white masks with horns and glowing eyes. Only two of the books had sketches of demons that looked human, and what they had to say about this type of creature was not at all comforting.

“Demon, have you been there all night?”

“From sunset to sunrise, every night possible, you have not been alone.”

Swallowing hard, he pushed fear down again. His eyes glanced at the bed nearby, rarely slept in lately in favor of the windowless office. Remove the walls, 40 feet, perhaps less from where his head would rest was the demon's perch. He wouldn't pretend bravery he did not have, but he would not allow panic again. The demon would say things that would give him even worse nightmares, and he had been warned not to listen.

“For how long, demon? How long have you been hunting me?”

“Hmm,” the piercing eyes looked down and fine lips pursed, a very human expression of thought, “will the truth frighten you away again? It was not pleasant, sitting outside like a dog denied sight of his master for barking too loud. I should stay silent.”

He snorted, hoping it sounded more derisive than amused. His hands went to the shutters, moving to pull them closed.

“Stay silent then. Good night to you, dog.”

“You do not play fair, child.”

The click of the latch solidified his resistance to temptation. And it was so very tempting. There, only a stone's throw away, was the ultimate source of knowledge, the truth of humanity's enemy. But it was not as simple as asking. Demons lie, just like humans. He had to sort truth from falsehood if he could get the demon to answer at all. And with every comment, every answer, he put himself at great risk.

One thing all the sensible texts agreed on, a demon drove you to madness with terror and with desire until you walked willingly into the night. He had already experienced a taste of it. With just a few words, he had been so scared and shocked that he had simply huddled on the floor of a closet waiting for death. How many more words until he ran into death's embrace just to escape the fear of death?

As if his thoughts were spoken aloud, he heard the demon's deep chuckle, sounding so close that his head whipped around to stare at the shutters, to make sure the demon had not come in. And he shivered.

 

ooooooooooOOOOOOOOOOoooooooooo

 

This human world was not of great interest to Ichigo. He often would stroll other worlds, and sometimes he would find a worthy distraction. And by distraction, he meant an entertaining hunt, a long pursuit, a soul worth the time. Other worlds had more humans, or less. Some were so thoroughly dominated by humans that his kind were nothing but myth. Hunting in those lands was almost comically easy. Other worlds were awash in superstition. He would play into their fears, come to them as a dark god and take willing sacrifices. This offered great amusement at first, but quickly grew bland with the lack of challenge.

The problem was that truly great souls were rare. This world, where humans thrived but had not yet conquered their ancestral fears, where magic was still a very true and effective weapon and defense, where there was still the possibility of monumental achievements and discoveries, this world could produce souls of such power and individuality that they dazzled him. Hard to find, harder to catch, these souls could change one of his kind, strong enough to become the dominant soul, to cause an evolution. His precious Toshiro was one such soul, one that might change the destiny of a devil. Not for one such as he, with an identity long established. But for this pack of creatures, certainly.

He watched, keenly aware that one great soul was within his reach and therefore well within this pack's ability to sense. They were strong enough to recognize the prize even if his Toshiro was currently quiet, not advertising his delectable soul by broadcasting a call for death. He stayed in the walnut tree, eyes trained on the horizon picking out five that were on the cusp of evolution, two quite close indeed. At that level, the five would speak, have some sense of self, but no stable identity and no guarantee that they would ever achieve it.

They followed a fledgling. He grinned. A familiar fledgling. It had been a long time to a human like his Toshiro, many years since he the first time he had seen the delicate boy-child and the promising new fledgling. The creature had not left his mind, but then, those years were only a quick blink, not nearly long enough to forget the sapphire eyes and the bold defiance, not nearly long enough to forget the temptation to kiss or to kill.

The window was shut. The night was quiet. And the pack of hunters was close enough to justify his departure from his Toshiro's side. Power carefully regulated, he circled wide to come closer from another angle, using just enough power and speed to be judged less than he was yet great enough to warrant their attention. He stopped not long after feeling them fan out, falling into their trap. Crouched and ready, looking like an oblivious target, with his head down to hide the lack of a mask, he waited.

Two could not hold their eagerness, the two strongest apart from the fledgling. Predictable, so close to a major power gain their hunger knew no restraint. He chuckled as a bright streak of blue and white knocked one of his would-be killers back into a tree and just managed to tackle the other before it entered striking range. The remaining three crept slowly forward, the one recovered from his unexpected collision with foliage sneaking up from behind.

“Down, you fuckin' fools! On your knees!”

Two complied, one backed away before sinking down in obvious confusion. The stronger one growled low and froze. Ichigo straightened with a hiss. Now they were all down, the scent of terror growing thick as they got a good look at him and tasted the release of a small portion of his power. Only the fledgling still stood, caught between the instinct to grovel and the need to maintain authority in front of his pack.

“Ruining my fun, Grimmjow.”

The familiarity, the playful note gave permission, and Grimmjow grinned as he bent his head without kneeling. He was one lucky devil, and he was quite aware of it. Two Vasto Lorde he had encountered from a great distance when he was weaker, both times lucky to escape with his life. Only speed and slower companions had saved his ass. Hell, that's the main reason he allowed these sycophants to trail him. When you're running from something stronger, always helps to have a few slow friends to sacrifice.

Then this one. There had been no way to run when he met this one; he'd walked right into the jaws of death and wholly failed to be eaten. Instinct and legend told him it was impossible to survive such a direct confrontation with a Vasto Lorde, and this one was terrifyingly powerful. Yet he had escaped with not just his life but his pride intact. It didn't make sense, but mercy or no, he had never wanted to face such a formidable predator again.

Just how far would his luck hold? The Vasto Lorde let him keep his head up again, even gave him considerable status in front of the pack he'd never asked for but damn well demanded respect from as long as they tagged along in his shadow.

“Sorry, Lorde. You wanna chase a few of 'em? Maybe this dipshit?” He hoisted the still dazed creature up by the collar and shook it a bit. Weird looking, arrogant prick deserved to be prey.

“You can keep your toys, kid. And _I'll keep mine_.”

The sudden threatening aura made him slightly weak in the knees. He dropped the pathetically shaking one and he fought the urge to join his followers groveling in the dirt. His mind raced, suddenly realizing where he was, why he had chanced upon the same lethal creature twice.

“Right, right, meant no harm. We were just hunting, nothing special, didn't even recognize the place. I mean, it's been a while, hard to remember shit, never would have come this way if I'd known.”

He was babbling, and he hated himself for it. Almost every living thing he met was weaker than him, so much weaker that he was king of all he surveyed. Until he wasn't. Until he was reminded that there were some just as far above him as he was above the quivering fool at his feet, the few who made him feel like he did now, weak and pissed. Then, as suddenly as it came, the suffocating pressure was gone, the invisible knife sliding away from his throat.

“I believe you, Grimmjow. You aren't stupid enough to ignore my warning. So, traveling with a pack? Unusual. They don't slow you down?”

_What the hell?_ Now the tone was almost friendly, like they were old buddies. At least pretending to have recovered his dignity, he grinned again. The grin wavered into a feeble, sickly smile as the regal and horrifying man began walked casually toward him, stopping only arm's length away as he struggled not to take a step back. The one previously at his feet had no such pride, or had stronger survival instincts, scrambling back in the dirt almost to the trees.

“A bit, but they have their uses, my Lorde.”

“Thought I told you to call me Ichigo.”

He didn't miss the quiet gasps, the surreptitious glace from the one who recently started calling himself Shawlong, still kneeling low behind the Vasto Lorde. He couldn't figure this guy out, but he'd gladly take the sudden elevation from king to god in his follower's eyes. None of them would ever get to call one of the big dogs by name, and he dared any of them to stand in his place. This must be how his prey felt, the weak humans he held in his claws and graciously gave time to come to terms with their impeding painful demise.

“Well, Ichigo,” his voice did not shake, despite the loud voice in his head screaming at him to run, “sorry to have bothered you again. I'll remember to hunt elsewhere. We'll just run.” _Run, run, run!_

Hopefully none of the piss-ants noticed him flinch when a long-fingered hand reached for him. And he really hoped they didn't see the shivering of his skin or hear the involuntary purr when that hand briefly caressed his neck before landing on his shoulder. The power, the _unbelievable power_ that nearly seared his flesh and made him want nothing more than to feel that hand burning him as his thoughts hazed and his knees shook. _Fuck!_

“Do me a favor, Grimmjow.” Which meant, do this or die. “Keep an eye out when you roam here. If you see that ice dragon, let me know where. I would be very grateful.”

“S-sure th-thing, Ichigo.” He did not lean forward when that masterful hand moved away. He did not want to seek more of that deliciously terrifying aura. He definitely did not stutter.

“Good man. Be sure to tell your pets that not all souls are fair game here. In fact, best tell them to avoid this area entirely. Well, you have a good hunt.”

He didn't even have time to blink before the Vasto Lorde vanished, not even a hint of his delicious power remaining. With a growl, he kicked the dirt, glancing around at the slowly, cautiously unfolding figures. He turned and stalked away, badly needing to kill something. The pack chattered, adding to his bad mood as he ignored excited and awed questions. It was Shawlong's comment that got his imagination spinning and picked up his spirits.

“Just what do you think you'd get from a grateful Vasto Lorde?”

 

ooooooooooOOOOOOOOOOoooooooooo

 

The window was open, he noted as he walked across the open field. His Toshiro was a fickle human, locking the window many nights after their second, too brief conversation. The tree had grown, as he had told it to, but not yet enough for the branches to allow him to sit and see easily into the window. So, he settled at the usual distance and waited silently. The light had barely faded in the west before the child was framed by the windowsill, candlelight behind and weak red sunset reflected from clouds lighting the pretty figure in peach and amber.

Happiness. He had not felt it from the boy since before the loss of the dragon, and he dared to think his presence might have brought that light into the bright eyes he greeted with a tender smile. Caution, with a small but tasty dose of fear ever present, and the excitement that flared in the little mortal every time their eyes met, he hummed in pleasure as he explored these feelings, the rapport between them much stronger when he could look into those lovely gems.

“Good evening, demon.”

“Oh, are we being polite tonight? Good evening, human. How are you this fine night?”

The little imp grinned, and he spared a moment to appreciate the spike of sharp hunger in response. It was fortunate that humans could not sense emotion the same way his kind could, or the window would have slammed shut once more.

“Well enough, demon. Are you not cold?”

“I do not get cold easily, but I thank you for the concern. Have you lived in this city your entire life, child?”

“I have. Why do you ask?”

“You have never seen true winter, then. The harmless treat of snow here is very different elsewhere. I have walked lands where the snow and ice are so deep they would cover your city and leave no trace.”

He had the human’s full attention now, much to his delight. Ichigo had been thinking on this, the best approach for the surprisingly resilient mind. The boy’s own curiosity was the answer, the mind's doorway that would open into that intriguing soul. It would be the key to dragging his prey out from behind the wall into the night without force or breaking the strong will.

The smile vanished as the shining figure turned and left. He was certain he had the right lure. Then the noise of scraping reached his ears. His Toshiro reappeared, sitting in the chair he had dragged as close to the window as possible. What a charming sight as the white-crowned head rested on arms folded across the windowsill.

“Will you tell me of it, demon? Do humans live in such a harsh place?”

Well, that was even easier than he expected. So far, he was enjoying this exchange, civil, almost friendly. Once, long ago he thought, he had trapped a strong demon hunter. The man took days to die, and Ichigo had not torn down the wavering barriers the human had hidden behind, respecting the strength of his prey in its final moments. They had talked, his first true conversation with a human, until the man willingly lowered the weak shields and welcomed the death he had fled. Ichigo remembered every word, and the nearly kind touch of the warrior's hands. It had been a gentle death, an intimate death. He would win the same knowing surrender from this beautiful boy, he swore it to himself.

“On one condition, and it may be painful for you to pay my price.” The turquoise eyes narrowed. “Tell me why your kind would trade a mighty defender for a crude and ugly spell.”

Toshiro looked away. It was not as easy to think rationally when those inhuman eyes were the center of his attention. He tried to think quickly if there was anything dangerous in giving the demon what he knew of this but could not see a clear risk. There must be one. But he had already committed to conversing and knew it would involve give and take. He did not want to make it a war of wits, even if that decision meant he gave away more than he received.

“Some time ago, let’s see, five years now, the petty lord who runs this city died.”

“The same fever that killed your mother?”

The interruption was too sudden to hide his wince. It was just one of many wounds the demon would inflict, he knew, and he could almost feel the enjoyment the demon took in causing him pain.

“Perceptive demon. Yes, it was, and the man’s son took over. The former lord was nothing impressive, but his son is slovenly, greedy, arrogant, and worse. He’s stupid, an utter imbecile. It was his decision to stop paying the dragon’s tribute. The mage was not cheap, I have heard, but the mage’s spell is supposed to last twenty years, making the cost far less than the tribute.”

“For money? They let the dragon leave for the sake of money?”

“Do you understand this, demon? Humans will do just about anything for wealth.”

The demon’s chuckle was a dark sound, a deep sound that seeped sin and decadence straight into his veins. He had prepared for it, and this time he did not shudder at the thrill of fright and something else that he did not look at too closely. A demon would find many easy meals with a clawed hand full of gold. Yet, this demon had not offered him riches, had not offered him anything at all.

“This I know well, having seen the proof an infinite number of times. Yet for all my experience with your species, I still find it hard to believe that any creature could be so foolish. That dragon was spectacular, and a true deterrent to my kind. Even I did not dare to approach the city when he was present. And now, here I am, almost close enough to tear out your pretty little heart.”

This time he was ready and let the potentially damaging words flow through him as if reading them on a page. Something else caught his attention, and he celebrated his own small victory as the demon showed surprise.

“He? Are you saying the dragon was male?”

“Of course. The sheer size made that clear, males being much larger. And a female ice dragon would never travel so far from home unless ancient or too young to reproduce. Certainly, a female would not commit to years away from the mountains. Dragons take a very long time to bear and raise their young, one reason why they are so rare.”

He blinked, dazed by the many jewels scattered in front of him, unable to decide which to pick up, what question to ask next. Lands with snow that covered cities, the secret lives of mystical creatures, the far darker secrets of demonkind. He took a slow breath, feeling the black and gold eyes boring into him above the smirking lips. The demon had decided to seduce him with knowledge, to intrigue him. It seemed an unreliable and long way to go about earning a meal, but he was certain there were dangers he could not yet see.

He had read that strong demons only needed to gain a sliver of their prey's attention, a second of eye contact to invade your mind and drive you mad. Other than implications of a gruesome death, this demon had done nothing of the sort. But the monster did not hide the temptation nor the consequences.

“You do not even try to hide your intentions, demon.”

The handsome face cocked to the side.

“Why would I hide my nature, human? This is a simple exchange. I will give you what you want; ask your questions and I will answer. And you will willingly give me what I want in return.”

“I will not.”

The demon just widened his grin, too wide for his face, and the image of a snake unhinging its jaw to swallow him whole flashed through his mind.

“The high mountains are the best places to find ice dragons. Humans cannot live there; the very air would freeze your fragile lungs with your first breath. At the tops of these mountains, you can see the stars even at midday, and the strongest birds cannot find enough air to fly. It is the magic of dragons that allows them to master such heights.”

Toshiro let the fear go. He would have to become much better at surviving the taunts and threats. Otherwise, the demon would be right, and the knowledge gained would cost him his life before he could do anything useful with it. He let his chin fall back to his forearm and listened with rapt attention to the words of the demon.

 


	4. Chapter 4

“Ah! There you are, my little bibliophile. I've brought you something special.”

A rare smile flitted across his face. This merchant was as crazy as the demon, probably crazier. Traveling merchants died often and usually young. Bandits by day, demons by night, long stretches with nothing but a roadside inn with a shaky shield, it was a wonder anyone chose that lifestyle. But Urahara seemed carefree and happy. Perhaps because he took these risks for almost nothing. Selling medicines, herbs, charms, and the occasional book to a mostly poor and illiterate population could not possibly earn enough for him to be a target for robbers. And they probably took one look at him and ran, not wanting to risk tangling with a madman.

As the merchant rummaged under the seat of his large cart a cat darted out, sprang off the edge of the cart and sailed across the table to land on Toshiro’s small shoulders. He staggered back with an ‘Ooof’ at the impact, somehow keeping his footing while the cat wrapped itself around the back of his neck like a scarf. Regaining his balance, he reached up to scratch the velveteen ears, the sleek black head rubbing on his cheek, fancy, jeweled collar scratching against his jaw.

“Good morning, Yoruichi. Looking beautiful as always.”

“You know, I’ve never seen her take to anyone the way she has to you. It’s one of the reasons I bother to return to this backwater town.”

He snickered, bringing his other hand up to scratch the base of the long whip tail, earning a rhythmic digging of claws into his shoulder. Not a purr, though. He’d never once gotten a purr from the aristocratic feline. Perhaps he should get a cat. This one seemed awfully good company, though his granny’s fat calico was a lazy snob.

“You have mentioned it. The feeling is mutual; I think she’s simply magnificent.”

“I’d thank you not to make her any more arrogant, lad. I have enough trouble keeping her in line as it is. Shoo, you little wretch. Men doing business here.”

He stumbled again as the weight launched off his shoulder to land on the more size-appropriate perch of the man’s shoulders. With a brief hiss, a soft paw smacked the bookseller across the nose and then she was gone in a streak of black and a flick of long tail.

“Spiteful little demon.”

The scruffy face grinned at him as a heavy, leather-bound tome was sat in the middle of the sagging table which groaned under the weight. Oh, he'd buy it just for the pleasure of looking at the thing, and the merchant knew it. Ornate, gold scripted letters proclaimed it to be the complete history of Seireitei, the distant capitol and home of the Great Library, as well as the Academies that produced healers, demon-hunters, mages, and scholars. Some king lived there, too, not that a king mattered to anyone this far from the throne.

“Oh!” His hand reverently, lovingly opened the cover to find heavy vellum pages, no, a thick, textured paper just as fine. “Oh, well done! Where did you find this?”

Exactly the wrong approach with a merchant, anyone could tell you that. But he never haggled with the bookseller, never hid his appreciation, never counted the coins. That guaranteed that the man would not pass up a treasure like this. Most would; it had to have cost him with little chance of selling an expensive book of history out here in the country. But knowing he had a buyer, knowing a good profit was waiting made it worth the merchant’s time and the space in his cart.

The merchant flicked open a paper fan that fluttered as he told the tale of a perilous journey to distant cities where he uncovered the neglected tome in a mystical marketplace and nearly had to sell his soul to acquire it, all because he knew his favorite customer would find a moment’s pleasure in the reading. An occasional scoff escaped him, hidden in small coughs as he slowly turned pages. All of it was the merchant’s way of justifying a price tag that he knew would hurt, and he knew he would pay. Thanks to his writing and bookkeeping, he would be able to recover.

Another heavy page whispered as it fell, and he gasped. In astounding detail and bright color, a painting worthy of being hung in a palace met his eyes. Orderly white buildings with burnt-gold roofs, wide streets, high towers along white walls, and a set of grand buildings in the distance, climbing up a tree lined hill.

The gregarious man had gone silent, sharp eyes half hidden by the rim of a ridiculous hat watching his reaction, gauging how much to raise the price. He didn’t care, especially when he looked at the slightly fanned edges of paper and saw many glossy slivers indicating other illustrations. He was tempted to look now, but he desperately wanted to have this book in his home, to become familiar with it in privacy. It was nearly painful to close the cover.

As expected, the price would be painful, too.

“I do not carry that much, obviously. Would you hold this for me while I finish shopping? I’ll return with your payment.”

The merchant agreed, like anyone else in this town except the local lord would even be able to afford such a thing, and that moron had no interest in any kind of book. Toshiro hurried about his errands, nervously returning with a fortune in his pocket. Robberies were nearly unheard of in the city. There was nowhere to go, no way to hide the sudden acquisition of goods or money when everyone was locked in a small space, and visitors were constantly watched by the guards. Even with his rumored wealth and the general hatred toward him, no one had ever tried to break into his nearly defenseless home. Still, he had multiple hiding places, one of which was now empty to add to the weight of the pouch he handed over to the merchant.

Exchanging a few more pleasantries was difficult, and he held the book close to his chest the entire time until the bookseller let him go with a knowing smile.

 

ooooooooooOOOOOOOOOOoooooooooo

 

He stood and watched, the child completely unaware. One would think a human would be more cautious knowing a creature like Ichigo was sniffing around. Speaking of sniffing, his nostrils flared. Something . . . off, something, a scent somewhat familiar, unsettling. One of his own kind? Perhaps, the scent not quite right, lingering about the white hair, the rounded cheek. Besides, his own kind could only be here when he could be here, and he guarded the boy closely.

Something else was stalking his prey. Rage flooded his senses for a moment. There was nothing he could do. The many nights and all the days he could not be here, the little one was out there, vulnerable, ripe for the plucking. He should take the boy now, before another could steal the luminous soul, the sweet and tender flesh. The young human would fall quickly if he were to employ his usual tactics now, after such relative kindness. A fascinating mind would shatter, a budding beauty would be crushed before any could see the exquisite bloom.

The boy had moved a small desk into the bedroom, placing it at a right angle to the window to easily turn to the desk or the windowsill. A massive book and several smaller ones devoured the small space, leaving room for one covered lamp. The small form was in several layers of clothing with the window open to the winter chill, a blanket across his lap, gloves with the fingertips removed on his hands. He watched, amused, as the boy continued to read and then jumped, suddenly aware that he was not quite alone, the sun had set.

His Toshiro was trying to mask his reactions but was not very successful. Fear was only a small part, outweighed by expectation, almost eagerness. This was to be their sixth conversation, not including the first two which were so brief. He laughed lowly at himself. Still counting, becoming aware of time. As always, his little prize started so polite, though the night could end in an angry slamming of shutters or a fond farewell in the gloomy predawn.

“Good evening, demon.”

“Hello, my sweet. That book is bigger than you.”

“A Complete History of Seireitei. Have you been there? Of course, you have.”

Their talk so far had been of distant places and strange cultures in this world, ones the well-read child had heard little of and ones no human knew. He told the child of the frozen tundra, the jungles so thick that it was always twilight under the canopy, raging rivers that plunged hundreds of feet, mountains so high no bird could fly over their perpetually starlit peaks, and scorching deserts where life hid from the day instead of the night. At times, he thought the boy had drifted off to sleep, but whenever he paused the gemstone eyes flicked open expectantly and a new question came from the perfect pink lips.

“It is the grandest city in your world, truly a sight that would astound you though I have no fondness for it.”

“You wouldn’t, would you? An Academy just to train demon hunters, an army of hunters and mages, and if this is still accurate, a pair of fire dragons.”

“That is the least of it. The traps set for miles around are ancient and potent. No human now living knows how to create traps so deadly, though they were once quite common. Now they die out, each trap sprung or worn cannot be replaced except with weak substitutes. Strange how your kind will advance so quickly, then lose knowledge even more rapidly.”

Toshiro sometimes left out facts that he knew, just to see if the demon was honest. He had read of the defenses, and the demon brought up the traps on his own. It didn’t mean the demon’s words were trustworthy, but it did give him a little more confidence in the demon’s stories. Many details matched what he knew, and where they did not, the demon’s version often made more sense.

“And demons? Do your people have books to preserve knowledge, schools, or do you teach your children individually?”

Humming, oddly pleased that the boy finally asked a direct question about his kind, he considered the attentive little human. He had talked to many of his prey while luring them to him, but rarely spoke truth about himself or his people, though that phrase ' _his people_ ' hardly fit. No such sense of community existed. But his Toshiro was different somehow, and he did not wish to lie about himself to this insatiable scholar. Not a creature that spent a lot of time on self-reflection, he let his gut guide him and told the truth.

“We do not have books, or schools. Or children. Sometimes an elder will take the time to instruct, not often.”

Incredulity, an odd expression of interest and disbelief. He smiled at the perplexed child.

“Our kind and yours are not at all similar, my dearest human. My world is very unlike this one. No families, no homes, no animals or birds, no water or sunlight.”

“That’s impossible.”

He laughed. It was not a kind sound, full of his derision to earn a hint of a flinch from the boy while he had succeeded in lowering the human’s guard. Little things like this kept him coming back, kept him talking, wearing down the child’s defenses. It was much more entertaining than forcing clever Toshiro to break, and the chance of further diversion from the monotony of existence was worth the risk of losing the right to kill and consume the sweet little morsel. He blinked, startled for only a second by the realization that this boy's continuance was, for now, more desirable than the glorious end.

“Little infant, so confident in your vast experience. I could show you, if you like.”

He held out a hand, palm up and welcoming, hoping for another flinch. What he got was a sneer and a toss of wild white hair as the clever boy turned back to his book. But the window remained open, and soon more questions about the human’s world came.

 

ooooooooooOOOOOOOOOOoooooooooo

 

“Toshiro! Come in, come in, my boy.”

She let him place the basket on the small table before she hugged him, as she did every morning. The boy needed some human contact, some warmth in his life. Over the winter the boy had turned 14, growing up, though he would not allow her to celebrate his birthday. He was still small for his age but starting to show the first signs of maturity. A difficult age for boys, and this one had no father, no uncle or older brother, no one to look to or talk to about it.

“Good morning, grandmother. I brought you the last of the dried persimmons, though I don’t know how you stand them.”

Her young man had changed in more ways than one. He would never, she thought, be entirely comfortable with people. Why should he be, when everyone showed him their worst faces? Yet he had social interactions now that were positive, through his work only but it was a start. It altered the way he spoke, added a bit of confidence to the set of the slight shoulders, the lift of the strange eyes under stranger hair.

“You are such a good boy, thinking of your old granny.”

He was a kind young man, somehow, despite his losses and the hostility of the community. She hoped she could take some credit for that kindness, even though she was now a burden to him. Around her, old men and women were cared for by children and grandchildren, a fair trade for the care they had given many years ago. Her only living child had left with a soldier, back to his city many days journey away.

She knew she was lucky to have Toshiro. She had been paid for her time over the years; he was under no obligation to do what he did now. But every morning, he brought her breakfast. Her pantry was restocked without her asking. Hot dinners arrived with his small, kind smile every evening except the two nights a week she spent dining with friends. And any tending her home needed was seen to promptly without her ever spending a copper.

They sat to have their meal together, and she chatted away as always. The boy answered more frequently lately, shared his own stories about the people who hired him. He was so busy, always working, but always finding time for her, always showing small signs that he thought of her. Thoughtful gifts appeared without comment, without seeking thanks. Worn out clothes and bedding were replaced bit by bit, small improvements and repairs done unobtrusively, it was more than most of her elderly friends received from their own flesh and blood.

It was the greatest shame of all that no young woman would get to experience the quiet, wholehearted dedication that the boy could offer. A young man of 14 should be spoken of by elders, matches made, preparations for marriage in a year or two. But not Toshiro. Even if the boy had any friends his age, no parent would give their daughter to the town pariah.

“I almost forgot.”

Toshiro didn’t almost forget but wanted to save the surprise so they could have their breakfast and clean up, their usual routine. He took the folded rectangle of black velvet out of his pocket, sat it on the counter and opened it. Glad that she had not spotted the absence of the jewelry, he watched her eyes fill with tears and gave her the handkerchief he had ready.

Always so sentimental, and he knew the necklace and the two rings were the only truly fine things she had. Her wedding band, resized to fit over large, arthritic knuckles without causing pain, cleaned and buffed carefully to erase years of small scratches. The much more expensive ring her husband had given her years later, when they were settled and he could afford better, also made larger with the small rubies long since worked loose now reset. And the necklace, not a particularly valuable piece, sent by a granddaughter she had never met and almost immediately broken, the chain replaced with an identical but stronger one to hold the pretty pendant shaped like a butterfly with opal wings.

He held her while she cried and thanked him too many times, accustomed to it by now even if it still made him fidget after a few seconds. Assuring her that it was no inconvenience, he reminded her that the blacksmith had referred him to a silversmith who was the only skilled jeweler in town. He handled various tasks for the jeweler now, and the man welcomed trade in kind to reduce the fees he charged for more skilled work. It was a handy system, and he now had more tradesmen seeking his services than he could accommodate, most of whom would not have accepted his coin a couple of years ago.

The businesses he helped all saw marked profits, justifying higher payments. Such simple things, so many obvious inefficiencies, correcting habits that had been ingrained, negotiating new trade deals instead of just purchasing from the same people year after year. It mystified him sometimes, how ridiculously simple the solutions were. And he needed the money, taking on as many jobs as he could, working through the nights when the demon was not there. He needed plenty of cash for what he was planning, the sooner the better.

 

 ooooooooooOOOOOOOOOOoooooooooo

 

The window was closed, the room dark, but he could hear the steady scratch of pen on paper. His Toshiro was concentrating, few emotions quiet in the background of his active mind. It was soothing, like music with one steady note and accents high and low. He settled in the massive walnut tree, leaning back, letting the cool spring drizzle gather on his face.

Even this light rain was not usually enough to close the shutters. Wondering if he had done something to upset the sensitive little human, something to explain why the window was shut tonight when it had been open and welcoming for many nights now, he stared at the slats of iron-bound wood. It then occurred to him, not for the first time but more clearly than ever, that he wanted to share as much of the night as possible.

It was not just the hope of breaking the child, not just anticipation of the glorious moment when that supple skin yielded to his sharp teeth. He supposed the correct word was like. He _liked_ the boy. Liked the way the little one’s mind worked, so different than the majority of his fellows. He liked the honesty, the bravery, the vulnerability, the openness and flexibility to adjust to a changing view of the world and self, each quality so strong in a small outcast child, qualities rare in any creature.

Facing his thoughts with some honesty of his own, he knew it then. He would still devour the boy given the chance. But after the feast, he would regret not being able to speak with his Toshiro again. He would forever dream about how their conversations would go as the boy became a man. Would the flexible mind become rigid? Would determination wane and wonder die? What would it be like if the grown man was yet his Toshiro, a matured man still drenched in starlight?

He had never even considered such things. So many humans he had hunted, never had he thought of any kind of future for any of them. The quiet humming in tune with the subtle notes of the busy mind, in rhythm with the steady heartbeat grew a little louder as he reflected on this new aspect of himself. It did not shock him, only caused mild surprise. It was the nature of his kind. Once he had been mindless but had existed. Once he had started to be aware, driven solely by hunger but suddenly with a growing sense of self-preservation. Once he had started to speak, found that he could plan and scheme to hunt bigger and better game. Once he had realized that _he was_.

Thus, a new type of emotion such as regret, a new condition such as being able to spare a rival or _liking_ an intended meal did not send him into rage or denial. He simply hummed and contemplated, certain that understanding would come in time as it always had. Lost in thought, he did not notice the change in his humming, reflecting the more chaotic thoughts, the increased pace of the precious heart. He stopped humming when the relatively loud click and the squeal of hinges broke the silence.

“Demon?”

Lantern-light and a cute expression of excitement met his eyes as the boy leaned out, looking first to the ground, then the tree. A faint but genuine smile curved the cupid’s bow and he smiled back, letting himself feel quite enchanted.

“I thought you were going to ignore me tonight, my sweet.”

“I’m sorry. I did not expect you tonight.”

He walked down the branch, wide and strong now, stretching toward the window. Jumping lightly to the ground, he moved to where the boy did not have to lean out into the chilly rain that was falling light but steady now.

“Expect me?”

“Well, yes. There is a pattern to nights when demons appear. I thought I had figured it out and tonight was not a night when you would come. You do not have to stay, you’re soaked through.”

With a tight shake, little more than an overall shiver, the drops were flung away. A pause, and then he stared as his Toshiro burst into laughter. He looked up, blinking and shaking away new dampness and the child collapsed into the chair.

“Oh, gods,” gasping in between pretty peals of mirth, “just . . . big scary demon . . . just a wet dog . . .”

The boy laughed harder, less in control, and he found himself smiling as he admired the white teeth, the scrunched nose, the tears eventually wiped away by an elegant hand as his Toshiro regained composure. He shook again, causing a bright ripple of giggles, a sound he had only once heard from the child, now richer with the first hint of maturity. He thought it might be the most beautiful thing to ever grace his ears, that riff of bells conjuring images of a sterling angel dancing on a rooftop, a dragon circling above as if conjured by the little laughing spirit turning, turning below with alabaster arms stretched up in graceful curves.

Though only thought was required, he made an elaborate flourish with his hand and no rain fell on or near him, vanishing entirely several inches from his body. That got the boy’s attention, delicate fingers wiping tears as focus shifted. He never guessed tears from happiness would smell so much sweeter than tears of pain and fear. Honeysuckle and dew warming in the dawn, would they taste as lovely as the promise carried in that scent?

“You use magic often, demon?”

“Your kind would call it magic, I suppose.”

The smile turned to slightly pursed lips, white brows pinched, and expression he had come to recognize. The boy was deciding whether or not to pursue, to ask about magic, or how his kind used power. Decision made, a resolute look came to those eyes, an intriguing addition to the flushed cheeks and lips struggling not to continue smiling.

“There is a predictability to when you can appear here, is there not?”

“I have mentioned it before, that I come to keep an eye on you whenever it is possible.”

“You're deflecting.”

“I am not.”

“Is there some kind of . . . schedule? A pattern, a way to tell if I will see you tomorrow night or the next?”

“You wish to see me tomorrow night and the next, sweet one?”

“Okay, so you will not answer.”

His Toshiro looked disappointed, frustration tasting like rust, dull and bitter, unpleasant after the honey of laughter and tears.

“A rhythm, yes, but it is one I feel, like you may feel a gentle movement in water, or the whisper of a breeze. Feel the wind long enough, and you no longer think of it on any level, you simply know it is there without wondering what the cool touch on your warm cheek may be.

“It is not an easy answer for me. I have only recently attempted and failed to grasp time well enough to truly understand words like tomorrow. Can you imagine such a thing, little beauty? To exist outside of time? I do not think you can. Such brief candles, humans, here and gone before I can even notice their faint lights. Until one comes that flares like a bonfire, burning fierce and hot, so bright the afterimage may linger for eternity. It is for that divine light, it is for you that I have begun to count the nights.”

He ducked his face under the windowsill, forehead on his arms. Too late. The demon had surely seen the amazement, a kind of involuntary yet sincere gratitude where there should be only horror in his eyes that now dropped to the dark floor. Fighting for breath, unaware that he had held it to listen to the demon’s words, such words, such confusing words.

Were they hurtful? The demon was telling him that he was mercilessly, unrelentingly hunted. Words that sounded like praise were a sinister threat. But that did not stop him from marveling that any creature would see any part of him as such, as something desirable, beautiful, divine. Even if it was only desire that would be sated by his death, it was more than he had ever received, ever expected to. And the tingling sweeping over his skin was a new confusion, too much to even try to understand.

“Never speak to a demon, and never, ever listen. If you do not listen, they can only kill you. Their words can do so much worse.”

“What a profound truth.”

The small head snapped up, apparently forgetting the effort to hide the red cheeks. Ichigo smirked at the glaring child, so quick to anger, so quick to plunge into despair and then, right as he began to drool, to jump right back to being pissed off.

“Damned demon, you would not know truth if it spat in your face.”

It was his turn to laugh, for he knew his Toshiro did not believe the words that came from his scowling lips. And it added to his immense pleasure, the new thrill that ran through the boy.

“My, my, how fast human's grow.”

The boy rose and spun on his heel to storm out of the bedroom while he mused on this new turn, this new and devastatingly powerful weapon that had been introduced into their duel. The boy had always been destined to lose, only lasting this long due to Ichigo's lack of ruthlessness, his enjoyment of the game allowing it to drag on.

But now, lust was an old friend of his, as familiar as his own skin. And the youth adrift in the treacherous waters of the strange state humans were tortured with, between boy and man, had no concept of what he had just done, releasing the intoxicating scent of attraction, arousal, physical desire. His sniffed the air, confusion and anger joining the potent aromas, sticky sweet clinging to his teeth, lining his throat, threatening to become overwhelming as the boy struggled to tame wild emotions the poor thing could not even name.

Time. Time Ichigo did not care about; it passed slowly as he stood motionless, head stretched back to watch the rain fall and be banished in front of his eyes as he soaked in the boy's ever-changing moods. Eventually, there was calm, punctuated by highs and lows.

Perhaps it was another side effect of a short life expectancy, fleeting lives and fleeting emotions, crammed into their short, short, too short time to live. He did not like the thought of his Toshiro as a fleeting presence, thrown about in this tempest of action and reaction with barely enough time allotted to come to the conclusion that life is too short to ever know a single truth.

He laughed again. It was his doing, after all. The boy would have been going about his life, mourning still for a long dead mother and a vanished dragon, carving out a small place for himself in his hostile world. Instead, the human was at war with a demon and with the all the foreign feelings the demon awoke in his powerful soul. Ichigo was a master at this, after all, and he called wordlessly to his prey, his Toshiro who had never had a prayer.

_Poor soul, brave soul, come to me and find peace, find pleasure, find the rest you long for in my arms._

 


	5. Chapter 5

Shutting the demon out was the only punishment he had available, not to mention the most sensible course of action to preserve his sanity and his life. He was glad that the demon had only appeared two nights in a row once, and hoped it was a long time before that happened again. The nights alone were needed, a healing period to regain his nerve and remind himself, both of what he was trying to accomplish and what he needed to be on guard against when dealing with his hunter.

For several nights after their latest spat, Toshiro kept his questions to safer topics. The demon seemed willing to play along, falling back into storytelling and teaching. Neither antagonized the other, and the nights were filled with talk, no need to cut the conversations short. He learned much; his unusual tutor and he may not have common frames of reference on many subjects, but the demon was extraordinarily intelligent and experienced. Once again, he found himself thoroughly enjoying the demon's company.

Yet at the same time he found himself increasingly distracted by the demon itself. The way he could always see the figure clearly even on gloomy nights. The way distance did not matter when the smooth melody of the demon's voice tickled his ears with utter clarity. The grace with which the demon moved, every gesture, every step like it was meant to be, destined from the dawn of time, planned and perfect.

“I believe I have a more accurate timetable of nights when your kind travel here. It will take many years to prove, I'm sure. The problem is that there is a kind of jump, a reset when the entire timetable moves up by a day and the intervals can shift. I believe those shifts can be predicted, but I need to experience more of them. It explains, too, why the previous attempts at charting demon nights have only been successful for a period of time before failing, and yet become correct again years later. It isn't just one cycle, but several, clicking together like the cogs in a clock.”

“How odd you are. So many ways to measure something that only exists through your observation and measurement.”

He turned his head to the window, as always able to see the demon perfectly despite the gloom and the shifting leaves. The lean frame draped along the walnut branch, propped on one elbow, one long leg dangling, like a lazy cat sprawled on an angular surface and making it look like the softest pillow.

“What does that mean, demon?”

“You have two clocks in your home. There is a sundial in your garden. Calendars based on the phases of the moon, calendars based on the seasons, planting schedules, weather predictions, solstice stones. All to try to control a thing that will never exist in a way that can be predicted, as your predictions of when the gates will align.”

He was silent for a while, thinking that time was one of the greatest issues they could not speak to one another about for long before fundamental differences interfered. Yet he knew the demon's perspective was changing his way of thinking on such things, just as extensive reading on a subject did, or the way immersing himself in the life and practices of a businessman changed his perceptions of human behavior as part of the economy rather than an individual.

There were, perhaps, too many truths instead of too few as he had always believed.

“What are the gates you mentioned?”

An orange brow rose. It had been several nights since the boy had dared ask a question about his kind, or anything more personal than where in this world he had traveled, what human knowledge he had obtained.

“My kind can travel many worlds, as I have told you. But not completely at our own will. Oh, there is always a place to go other than home, always some world within reach. Not all are worth traveling, not all are hospitable. So, we learn which we prefer and wait for the worlds to be close enough to one another to allow traveling. The closer the alignment, the less power it takes to move from one world to the another.”

The curious boy stared, brows drawn together to carve lines above his pert nose. It was difficult, often, to explain things he never had to think about, things that simply were and had always been, reliable even when changeable.

“Think, if you will, of yourself standing on this wall. Around the wall circles your dragon, and you wish to leap from the wall onto his back. How do you know when to jump?”

“I would observe. Is the speed and distance constant? Is it a distance I can jump safely?”

“Would you need to jump before it arrives to compensate for your stillness? Might some unpredictable event cause a new change in the dragon's course? And always, he is a living thing that may behave unpredictably even if you observe the same behavior for a night or a lifetime.”

“Then, at some point, a risk must be taken. I must rely on what I know and accept that the odds allow for failure. Instinct, a gut reaction as they say.”

“Precisely,” he smiled widely, pleased with the child when he knew his Toshiro was too reliant on logic. “Just so, my kind learns from instinct and observation, feeling the strengthening and weakening of the barriers between worlds as you may feel the rushing of the wings as you time your jump. We have the added advantage of watching elders, of course. But always there is an element of mutability, of risk. Those better in tune with the alignment are less likely to cause themselves damage or death when they decide to jump.”

“I still do not understand. You say gates as if they are physical things.”

“They are, and they are not. The places where worlds most closely align are gateways. A push of power is like opening a path, a temporarily physical tunnel connecting the two which one may walk through. These points move, but very slowly on most worlds. The nearest gate takes me several minutes to reach, that way,” he pointed casually over his shoulder, watching the pretty eyes widen and search the horizon. “It has moved far less than an inch in your short lifetime. So, one could say it is a permanent physical thing from your perspective.”

“Can such a thing be seen? If there was one right here, would I even know it?”

“To my eyes, it is invisible yet visible as a sort of ripple, not unlike this barrier. You can see the spirit barrier?”

“Yes. As you say, sometimes clear, but always a visible distortion like looking through low-quality glass.”

“Hmm. Sensitive enough to see this, you may be able to see where a gate would be as a similar effect, stronger when the gate is ready to be opened, as it is tonight. Would you like to see it?”

He held out his hand, palm up and welcoming. The boy blinked and then scoffed. The teasing and slightly chiding voice made him chuckle.

“Oh, yes, demon. Just let me grab a cloak and we'll stroll off into the night hand in hand. I'm certain I can trust you not to harm me. You said that I am sensitive enough to see the barrier. Does that mean others cannot?”

“You will have to ask another human. I do not believe most can. Have I neglected to tell you recently that yours is an extraordinary soul, my sweet?”

“I'm sure.” My, the smirking boy was feisty tonight. “Can you create a barrier like this?”

Toshiro stretched his hand out, but it was well out of reach. If he climbed out on the wall, he could touch the surface. He had done so many times, the insubstantial barrier yielding like the surface of water, a slight resistance if you took the time to feel it before passing through. He would not do so now, with the demon ready to snatch his hand. Life had become too interesting to allow himself to be ripped apart and eaten at this point.

“I can. You have seen it.”

“That is why the sentries do not see you?”

“Or hear me. It is why the rain touches me only if I wish it to, and why my tree has not been cut down to protect your precious city wall.”

“Why can I not see some sign of these barriers?”

“Simple, they are small, personal, and with a very direct objective. Minimal power, minimal disturbance on reality if you will. Whereas a gate is a very mighty thing indeed, and this barrier is full of power to destroy the powerful of my kind for decades.”

“So then, you and the mage both do the same kind of thing?”

He knew that sounded awkward, and he knew it offended the demon by the narrowed eyes and tightened lips. But there was a point to digging this way, starting in a place where he already knew what answer to expect. Something had been growing in the back of his mind, a tantalizing possibility. His soul was unusual enough to attract demons, he could see barriers that apparently not just anyone could. What else might he be able to do that others could not?

“You have experience with a blacksmith, yes?”

Okay, unexpected. “Yes.”

“Could you go to his forge and mimic his actions? Heat the metal and pound it into shape, sharpen it, wrap one end, and you could, with effort, fashion something that would pass for a knife. But it would look nothing like the one fashioned by the smith in a fraction of the time. It would not be as strong, as elegant, as effective.”

“And in this analogy, you are the smith and the mage is the bumbling idiot messing in your workshop.”

He shared a small grin with the demon. The creature had so many variations, smiles, grins, smirks, those perfectly charming lopsided curves that brought just one dimple flashing into existence. He pulled his eyes away from those lips, aware that he stared at them far too often.

“With some natural talent, physical and mental ability, and lots of practice, anyone can become a passable smith. It is the same for a mage then. Aptitude, opportunity, and experience; if a human only lived long enough, he or she could become as adept with magic as a demon.”

“Oh, it's that easy, is it? As far as comparing a human to a human is concerned, I suppose your theory holds. It is different, though, one cannot compare a mage to one of my kind. We emerge from spirit energy and can manipulate it without the need for talent or ability; those things are already with us all.”

“But there are various strengths of demons. So, talent plays a roll.”

The gold eyes shut, a peaceful look of meditation, not a very common occurrence and one that meant the demon was thinking deeply. For a few seconds, he was able to contemplate the demon without keeping his eyes guarded, letting them roam over the handsome features, nothing too sharp or too rounded, almond eyes, masculine nose and lips, refined cheekbones, all so well balanced when he had the chance to really look.

Unwanted and dangerous, the tingling starting everywhere and nowhere, settling somewhere around his stomach and groin. Beyond foolish to be attracted to the demon. But were not all men in love with their own death?

He shook himself. He was not _in love_ with anything at all. And the demon could be as attractive as it wanted, as long as he did not give it more thought than his damned hormones forced on him. He regained control by the time the disturbing eyes focused on him, the smirk saying that the demon knew, at least suspected his discomfiture.

“You will not like this answer, my sweet. Do you wish to listen to the words of a demon?”

Enough of the texts agreed on some of the ugly details he was sure to hear soon. He nodded, distrusting his voice as he clamped down on the anxiety that was rising. He would not panic. He would not shy away from knowing.

“You have seen the lesser creatures that prowl the night. Small or large, they do not appear as I do in a form you would say is human. Masked features or no faces at all, characteristics of animals, insects, or there may be nothing else you can compare them to, these are little more than the most primitive of creatures, a bundle of instincts and hunger. They are born from spirit energy, which is what makes souls. And they eat whatever they can, starting with small bits of loose energy, working up to eating each other.”

A small smile began on the demon's lips as he shuddered. Plenty of plants and animals were cannibalistic. He had read of humans who ate their dead or their enemies, and the demon had confirmed witnessing this behavior. Such rational thoughts did not stop him from feeling repulsed, especially since he knew where this would end, and he knew it might change how he looked at the demon. His gaze drifted over that smile for a moment, catching the hint of fangs as the demon spoke again.

“Humans in this world call us demons. It is a name I feel comfortable with, and humans of many worlds have titles for us that have the same meaning. But in the oldest of worlds, we are called Hollow. The inveterate hunger to consume gave us that name, creatures always striving to fill the void within, forever unable to do so.

“Devouring all in their path, the little ones grow, not necessarily in size but in power, until they can truly hunt. Taking down a rival of equal strength, they gain some of its power. Taking down a living soul, that is where true gains can be made. Once they are strong enough to pass through a gate, often under the feet or just behind a greater predator that overlooks them for better prey, they hunt the living. Humans are preferred, self-awareness being required to produce a soul worth eating.

“Few survive long enough to acquire enough power to evolve. They change as they gain power, becoming more cunning not just through experience but by leaps in strength as many, many souls are devoured and compressed. A truly great soul can sometime change the course of their evolution, becoming a sort of identity that surfaces through the layers of pure instinct. A soul like your own, my sweet, intelligent, determined, familiar with the darkness, is a prize that calls to all with the promise of a destiny-changing meal.”

Those were the kind of words he was always braced for, the reminder of what this demon wished to do to him, what his place was in the demon's eyes. He let the words cut, and he let the pain pass through, watching the slight smile widen as he tackled the truth head on. _It was worth it._ He sensed the truth, and the demon had just given him more than all the textual authorities could guess about the origin and nature of mankind's enemy.

“Go on, demon. What would happen to one of these barely aware demons if it were to catch and rend me?”

“Enough power, plus a truly special soul or two, and there is a chance of gaining consciousness, starting with the ability to speak, to reason, to cooperate and scheme. Then the entire process begins again. Fight, consume, hunt, survive until another stage, another evolution. Your soul is powerful enough that it may survive in a way, the resulting creature ruled by your personality traits, perhaps even your appearance. It is an alluring thought, one of my kind controlled by your soul.”

Tearing his thoughts away from that concept, from the image of himself as a demon, he sought a more interesting truth.

“Does that mean . . . you were once human?”

“I was once many humans. But I see your question. I suppose that yes, at one time a human who looked and thought similarly to me once existed, once was hunted and consumed for the strength of his soul.”

“And that results in something like you?”

“Not yet. One in millions, perhaps billions becomes a fledgling.”

“A bird?”

He blurted it out without thinking and got laughed at. The slight spike of angry offense was welcome, helping keep him from sinking too deeply into the demon's lyrical voice spilling deep secrets.

“A fledgling bird is a baby nestling ready to leave the nest, to try its wings. If they were untended as my kind are, most would die as they begin to venture into the dangerous world. The comparison is apt. Our fledglings gain a true identity, a self, a name and that will not change until they die. Often, they begin to look like a human, not surprising since they are basically the product of thousands of consumed souls, almost always human souls. But it will take so many more, another significant level of power to become like me. The final stage of our kind, as far as any of us know, and finally powerful enough to be freed from the constant imperative to consume.”

He blinked. The demon obviously waited, leaning forward in anticipation. Only for a second did he hesitate, entertaining the thought of not pointing out the obvious. It was inevitable, though, their conversation a stream leading inexorably to the sea. He had known at the beginning that this was the conclusion, the demon shoving the bitterest truth in his face. The demon who had just said its existence was the result of millions, billions of murders.

“Then, _you do not have to hunt me_. There is no need. My soul would mean _nothing_ to you, gain you no evolution or increase in power, no anchoring of your identity.”

“You speak as if it would be nothing. On the contrary, killing and devouring you would be, perhaps, the greatest pleasure in my long existence.”

He stood and left the room, ignoring the satisfaction on the demon's face. He did not run, was not panicking even as the pain tore a hole into his heart and nestled in to gnaw at him. The demon had told him nothing he had not already reasoned out, hurt him no worse than any time they spoke. Despite knowing the demon's nature, the creature had been the closest thing to a friend he had ever had. Over a year now, a hundred conversations mundane, argumentative, intriguing and intimate, and it all came down to a violent end and then, nothing. His existence just a brief experience the demon may or may not remember with vague pleasure.

In the windowless room was the collection of material on demons that he had gathered and studied since the first time the demon had shocked him to the core. He found what he had set aside, the most seemingly credible text on demonology, a work by several scholars and demon-hunters from the Academy in Seireitei between the two great wars. The demon looked mildly surprised when he returned, calm and determined instead of weeping or shaking.

“You can read, demon?”

“In hundreds of languages, including your own.”

The boy stood at the window and stared for a moment before opening the book and holding it out toward him.

“Your eyes are sharp. Is this what you are?”

He peered, delighted to be surprised once again by this shrewd child. There, next to the delicate fingertips, was a small sketch that could be any strong and sinister looking human. He quickly scanned the text, the first page of many, he was sure. Some of the 'facts' were laughably incorrect, but there were general truths scattered throughout. So, that was why the boy had not been as upset as he had hoped. He had been at least partly led on, the devious human asking questions when the answer was already discovered. He wondered if it was the first time his Toshiro had played more innocent than he was. Not likely.

"Clever child. The title is correct. Vasto Lorde is the term for what I am in the language of the first humans who gave us names.”

The stern little lips pursed, the familiar crease of intense thought that belonged on a much older face drawing white brows low and close. He licked his own lips, envisioning the pink lips flushed with red. He stretched languorously, curling his torso up and over to switch from sprawling on his left side to right, feeling the hot wash of desire from his prey. _Mmm_ , better than the pain of moments ago.

“You said millions, perhaps billions of your kind exist, and each requires countless souls. There is not enough . . . food for your kind here. How many worlds do you hunt?”

“Who can say? Certainly, I do not know; I’ve never tried to count, and I have traveled only a fraction of the pathways. The gates are ever shifting, and there are only so many paths my two feet can walk, to my favorite hunting grounds and occasionally somewhere new. Some worlds are always accessible, others so rare that I may find them only once and never again.”

“Is it a matter of physical distance? Some worlds closer than others? What makes this world so susceptible? And if some are always accessible, are they barren of life by now, only your kind remaining?”

He chuckled, reveling in the rush of emotion, the scholar’s skepticism and the child’s wondrous inquisitiveness, underneath it all the repressed arousal that made his own blood warm.

“Slow, my sweet, I am merely a simple beast and need time to consider your curious interrogations.” Pearly teeth clicked shut and so swiftly the boy’s aura changed to irritation. “I do not know why some worlds are easier to reach, whether it is physical distance or not, though what I know of the universe suggests physical distance is not a factor. There are worlds always within reach, perhaps connected to our home, part of our home in some way. They are far from barren. Having always known of my kind, they have survived with defenses of their own.”

“Defenses? Like the barrier, or demon-hunters?”

“Yes, and so many others. There is one entire world ruled by powerful souls, with an army trained and dedicated to protecting humans from my kind. Another world teeming with humans, defenseless apart from simply overwhelming my kind with numbers, humans in the billions and constantly reproducing, so secure in their dominance that they do not believe in us until the moment they are consumed. Other worlds, all kinds, barren or fertile, where we are demons, Hollow, nightmares, angels, or gods.”

“Gods? Angels?”

“Surely you do not think your race has defined what we are in every world? Don’t fret, many humans have labeled us demons, built a mythology of evil around us. It is as good a role as any. I prefer the honesty of being seen as a predator. Yet there are worlds that look more kindly on my kind, where the desperate, the weary, the lonely can call for an end without shame. For them, I am merciful Death, and they offer soul and body to me in payment for a true end, no continuance, no rebirth. But here I am Demon, devourer, cruel thief and brutal killer. Both are true.”

The boy had hundreds of questions, he could see them bubbling in the crystalline depths of the intently focused gaze. He had never told a human so much, never thought it would be so much fun. Or so difficult, the questions forcing him to think of things that quite simply never entered his thoughts.

“You have a name, demon.”

_Ah, at last._

“Of course, I do. You have a name, my Toshiro.”

There, all better, the shock suffusing the pretty face quite satisfying. He would never have believed the fact that he knew the boy's name would be a better weapon than telling the proud human that a horrendous death would be for no gain except his enjoyment. Really, the boy knew he had been watching, knew he was very intelligent, knew his sight and hearing were what one would expect of an apex predator. Why would he not know his prey's name?

“Well?” He grinned at the bravado, the cute child snapping at him angrily.

“Well, what?”

“Shall I continue calling you demon, or will you tell me your name?”

“I have never told a human my name.”

Falling back into the chair, the boy closed his eyes with a world-weary sigh. Such long, think lashes, startling black in contrast to bright eyes and white brows. He liked the way they fluttered down, brushing against the lightly tanned cheek and making it look pale as the moon. Fingers flexed, itching to reach and touch where the baby soft curve met the fine fanning of black.

“You can call me Ichigo.”

 

ooooooooooOOOOOOOOOOoooooooooo

 

“Yoruichi?”

The sleek black head turned just enough for the golden eye to peer at him before turning back with a sniff. He walked up behind the cat, not questioning why she was here. Cats were just like that. He looked over the triangle ears, nothing but a quiet field, a couple of shepherds driving a flock over the nearby rise toward the forest. Early morning mist hung silver in the dawn light, swirling lazily around the bouncing white sheep, the trotting dogs at their heels.

“Idyllic. What are you staring at, clever cat?”

The small black nose went up in the air, jewels winking in the ebony fur of the flexing neck as the cat sniffed the wind. One gold eye examined him again before the long tail twitched and she jumped out the window. He rushed forward in time to see her bound from the city wall onto the widest branch of the unnatural walnut tree.

He watched the cat pause to sniff all over the branch, stopping to vigorously sharpen her claws near the crook where the demon often sat. Quick as thought, the inky shadow slid down the trunk and glided through the grass. She stopped just shy of the spot where the demon usually stood, fine hairs standing up as her back arched. He could not resist laughing at the extremely bushy tail, but stifled his laughter and hid his eyes guiltily as the gold eyes swung back to glare at him.

Claws were deployed again, the grass and dirt getting thoroughly shredded by a sable, hissing furball. His jaw dropped as he took in the spectacle, the angry cat finishing the chore of mutilating the ground with a loud snort and a few final kicks of back paws. Back up the tree, over the wall, and she was gone as he tried to make some sense of what he had seen. Just a cat being a cat? Surely not. Something about the scent of demon, then. There were plenty of stories about animals being more sensitive, predicting demonic presences, defending humans or warning them. But those were scattered stories, silly proverbs and fairy tales.

The market wouldn't be open yet, but soon. He gathered up a basket and some coins. Where there was a mysterious cat, there was a crazy merchant peddling snake oil and shabby books. Getting to the market early worked well, anyway, fewer people to deal with. With some luck, he could have what he needed and be cooking breakfast before the morning fog burned off. The farmers, bakers, butchers, and traveling merchants were still setting up their stalls, so he headed for the end of the market near the front gate, and sure enough, there sat the familiar cart and a table covered with glittering bottles, sachets, and paper packets.

“Well, I do agree but what do you recommend we do about it?”

Toshiro halted, still half concealed by the empty booth next to the bookseller. The man was facing away from him, rummaging in some crates in the back of the cart. Draped across his shoulders, the black cat stopped licking its paw for a moment, then resumed.

“Yes, he's interesting, unbelievable potential you know, but that's not really an option. I don't have it in me to teach again, not after the last one. And before you suggest it, I'm not about to stick around this place. Not that it would do any good.”

The cat sniffed, head turning slightly. Toshiro took a step back, not really sure why he wanted to do something so rude as listening in on . . . well, _whatever this was_.

“Look, my dear, if it is a high-level demon as you say it is, then other than setting you lose on it what is there to be done? Stupid town got rid of the dragon, so the kid will just have to keep his wits about him. If he doesn't, well, that's how the world works. Besides, the demon might find he's bitten off more than he can chew.”

A low growl. At first, he thought the conversation one-sided, just the lunatic shopkeeper talking to his own imagination. Between the cat's strange behavior at his house and the odd way it was acting now, he was starting to rethink that assessment. Really, what did talking cats have over dragons and demons? And if he accepted that the pair were conversing, then the subject of their discussion was starting to make sense.

“You are calling me heartless? That's rich. I'm leaving on schedule and that's that. You want to stay behind with your new obsession, I won't stop you. Good luck getting him to feed you, though.”

The cat hissed and jumped onto the stacks of crates, turned, and abruptly sat with a very feline air of superiority and amusement, looking straight at him. He stepped out into the street a bit, not wanting to be caught lurking in the shadows, even though that's exactly what he had been doing.

“What?”

The merchant spun around, impressive in those ridiculous sandals, and he met the man's stare with the same calm face he used around the demon. Then the fan snapped open, hiding what he suspected would be a grin.

“Good morning, Urahara,” his head cocked a bit as he met the much more unnerving golden stare. “Yoruichi.”

 “An early shopper, welcome, welcome! Anything special you are looking for today, young sir?”

He raised a brow, debating. His entire view of the bookseller had just been radically altered. He wanted to ask, needed to know, but there was something in those sharp gray eyes that made him cautious. This man was not his friend. If he was understanding that strange half-conversation, the man knew at least a little about the demon but planned to do nothing to help him deal with it. Hell, even the cat seemed more of an ally.

“Yes, actually,” he decided to take the safe route, “I was looking for anything credible you might have on learning magic.”

The cat sniffed and flopped ungracefully down on the box to start bathing. He got the odd feeling that the cat was disappointed in him, perhaps hoping he would confront the merchant about what he had overheard. He gave a little sniff himself and looked away from her. One doesn't hold nerves against a demon on a regular basis just to be intimidated by some kind of mystical feline.

After casting a masked glance at each of them, the merchant lowered his fan. One hand leaned on the table, the other beckoned him forward until he stepped close.

“I may be able to find something on history, perhaps a work that skirts into theory a bit. You must not be aware that books containing any actual spells or instruction are quite illegal, even out here where the law can sometimes be malleable.”

Disappointment didn't begin to describe it. If he could not learn at least some magic, the Academy would have no reason to accept him, especially at his age with no formal education and no recommendations. The book on Seireitei told him that it was standard for a student to have completed an apprenticeship with a mage and already have basic skills in place. Impressing them had been his best chance. He focused on taking a deep breath, rearranging his plans in his head and moving past the obstacle. Everything would just be a little harder, but not impossible.

“No, I was not aware. Please forget that I asked. Anything new on demons, dragons, or other strange creatures like cats? I trust those topics are not off limits.”

Said cat stopped grooming to lay her head on her crossed paws and stare at him some more with unblinking golden eyes. _Golden eyes_. The hair on his neck stood, he could almost hear the cat making some smart-ass comment. He refused to look back, or at the merchant's smirk, fiddling with some bottles of colorful liquid instead.

“Nothing worth your attention, just the usual rubbish. Now, I did find a fairly rare text on the breeding and training of warhorses, written by the leading authority on the subject, dead some 100 years now.”

“What convenient timing. I just took on the livery as a client and am learning to ride in exchange. It would help to know more than the basics about the animals, I suppose.”

They talked like they always did. He decided to take this slowly, if he pushed at all. He needed Urahara, would need him more in a year or two if he was going to leave this place and make it safely to Seireitei. He had the distinct impression that if he dug too deeply for the man’s secrets, he may never see the bookseller again. Perhaps he imagined the look of exasperation, how can a cat look exasperated anyway, before Yoruichi vanished to do whatever enchanted, talking, demon-hunting felines did when they were fed up with human company.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, if you've been waiting for it as eagerly as I have . . . GrimmIchi.

For the first time, it was as if the demon did not notice him. He had been watching, waiting since just before sunset, certain that the demon would notice the marks two nights old now but still clearly visible. The tree had healed quickly, the claw-marks leaving uneven and pale bark. It hadn't rained, and the deep slashing of the earth was very much evident, scattered dirt and browned grass around the thin divots.

He had gone out himself to examine them. Leaving the city walls was not common unless there was some good business reason, and the guards eyed him as he forced himself not to cower or run through the gates. They were somewhat used to it, he would take the risk sometimes to go walk in the forest or gather herbs and wildflowers. He wondered what it must feel like for the guards, to stand there knowing that a defenseless young man was more afraid of you than he was of demons, wolves, bandits. They probably enjoyed it, going by the sneers.

The false safety of his house surrounded him now, watching the demon behave as strangely as the cat. It was obvious as Ichigo walked across the field, the sun just set and the red light reflecting off clouds as if the sun's only purpose was to make the orange hair glow. Unsettling eyes that usually fixed on him were examining everything, brushing across his body, the house, the city, even the sky with an air both cautious and fearless.

The long stride grew more fluid, deliberate and silent placement of feet, a slight crouch, and the long fingers were wrapped around the hilt of the sword he barely noticed anymore. When the demon was close, it knelt, one knee down, one hand still on the sword while the other slowly reached out, palm down, and hovered over the torn earth. Teeth bared, fangs looking longer, sharper than usual, deep and short, powerful inhales. He should feel alarmed by what he was witnessing, animalistic behavior, stalking. But the low growl sent a different kind of chill down his spine, and the fangs flashing in a white snarl, they were fascinating, making him want to touch, to taste them, press his fingertips to the points to feel if they were as deadly keen as they looked.

He shook his head free of disturbing thoughts when the fierce eyes found him, nostrils flaring as the demon searched the air. Though his eyes were trained on the demon, it moved so quickly that he thought it had simply vanished, only the swaying of branches giving it away and he had to lean out the window to catch sight of the demon again. Its back was to him, crouched and perfectly still inches from the scratch marks on the bark. The growl was louder now, a strange, bubbling undertone with both high and low notes, unlike a dog or any animal he had ever heard.

Reminding himself that the demon had a name, he calmed his rapid breaths and forced himself to stop thinking of ‘it.’ He may be seeing a truer version of the demon now than ever before, but that still did not justify demeaning thoughts, comparing the demon to an animal in his mind. Ichigo was no animal, no human; he was so much more.

“Ichigo?”

One black eye, glowing feral gold, and the corner of the snarling mouth as the demon pivoted slowly.

“Who have you been playing with, my sweet?”

Gasping, he backed up, losing sight of the demon. Where the other savage behavior did not completely terrify him, that voice . . . the velvet gone, stripped away by something acidic, the whisper sounding like both a pained scream and a mournful howl in his mind, the beautiful voice tortured beyond recognition.

“Who else has been courting you, delectable little human? Do they come in the light of day, on nights when I cannot reach you? How many suitors have found you? Do you let them all claim you as this one has? You do not sleep alone when I am gone, do you, precious?”

The demon was suddenly back in view, to the side of the bare patch and the scattered dirt and grass. There was that wide grin he still remembered, the one that made him wake up screaming, too wide, too hungry, far too many sharp teeth.

“What do you . . .” His weak, confused, frightened, _fucking childish_ voice trailed off as his brain caught up and he shouted. “What the fuck are you implying?”

Oh, the laugh was so much worse than the voice, grating on his nerves. It was as if the sound was clawing at his skull, trying to get in, to break in and rip him apart as promised. He hissed as he felt pain in his right hand, thankfully distracting him enough to catch his breath. Without even knowing it, he had been clenching his fists so hard that there were two bright red crescents in the flesh of his right palm, a thin trickle of blood staining the creases as he turned his hand to look, dazed.

“Toshiro, Toshiro, my Toshiro, your blood smells like _salvation_ , sweet Toshiro. I will not let anyone else have you, my Toshiro. _Mine_. Mine to devour, mine to cherish and savor, mine to ravage and ruin, _my Toshiro, mine to own_.”

He flinched, something he tried very hard not to do around the demon, but his name in that awful voice, he knew that would be added to his nightmares, ringing forever in the darkest parts of his subconscious. Slowly he looked up, looked out at the source of his pain, the _source of his will to live_.

That was the truth, and he staggered under the weight of realization before his strength left him, barely managing to fall on his knees instead of collapsing completely. He would have died, faded away until nothing but bitter hopelessness remained. But then came the demon, bringing challenge, wonder, life. His predator, his killer was the only thing that had saved him from walking willingly, piteously into the night.

“Oh god, the fucking irony.”

It was the truth, the certainty of it washing through him, stealing all warmth and leaving him weak. When he had lost his mother, only the dragon got him through when all he had wanted was to end, to follow her into death. And when the dragon left he was stronger, but it would not have lasted in the face of the world’s hatred and the overwhelming loneliness of existing. If his very own demon had not come, some other would have taken him long ago.

In that light it was clear, Ichigo was right. _He owed the demon his life_.

“Have I broken you, my sweet, my Toshiro? Will you come to me now and pay your debt?”

Too close to the truth, and he was not ready to give the demon his life. He took that truth and buried it deep, back in the dark with that terrible voice saying his name over and over and over again. He looked up over the edge of the windowsill to see the grinning demon, and he couldn’t help a short burst of laughter as he grinned madly back. Had his demon asked in that warm, caressing voice he might have done it, leapt out the damned window to just end it all, excruciating pain and torment and then nothing, _blessed oblivion_.

“I owe you nothing, demon. How many times must I tell you that you will fail?”

He stood, gaining strength from knowing, even if what he now knew was that he had a critical weakness. Knowing it, he could be even more on guard. Feeling indebted to the demon, he would steel himself to never, never acknowledge it. It was without anger, outwardly calm and composed though it was only the numbness that comes with shock that held him together, that he reached for the shutters. The wood and iron did nothing to block out the hellish laughter.

  
ooooooooooOOOOOOOOOOoooooooooo

  
At times, he truly wished he could read thoughts in addition to sensing emotions. Not usually. The standard human's emotions were like filthy tar, impossible to wade through, repulsive to feel sticking and stinking on your skin, and ever so difficult to wash off. Their thoughts . . . well, suffice it to say he almost never desired to know what inane drivel might pass for a thought.

Staring at the closed shutters, laughter died along with rage and the other sensation he did not want to dwell on. _Fear_. A sensation he had not felt since long, long ago when survival was still a matter of luck and cunning. _Fear._ The remote possibility of losing his Toshiro was no longer quite so unimaginable.

Why fear? He would lose Toshiro when he won the boy, erasing that delightful existence, and at the same time he would gain that bright soul, his for eternity. The thought of someone else reaping that sweet reward should only enrage him, not cause fear. He could always devour the one who took Toshiro, regain the precious soul though it would not be the same, would not be as exquisite as ripping it from the boy as pretty eyes watched.

Or did he fear something else entirely?

Strange to think he wished to know his Toshiro's thoughts when his own were indecipherable. As for the boy's feelings, they were nearly as confusing tonight, from a high of excited curiosity to the depths of despair. So tasty, that dark doubt and hopelessness, so very seductive. Too brief it had been, the child recovering and lashing out only a few heartbeats later. But so alluring and powerful, that anguished soul, the predators were coming in droves already. He debated killing them off to drain the last of his anger, then smiled at the closed window.

Turning his attention back to the crude message left for him, he imprinted the scent on his memory. He had smelled it before, on his Toshiro's beautiful skin, and rage returned as he thought of it. Enough like one of his kind, yet it could not be, and the thought of it touching the boy when he could not was enough to drive him mad.

A surge of power and the marks vanished, the scent obliterated as if it had never been, and he turned to leave the city to his brethren. His presence had kept the area as free from predators as had the dragon. But he was leaving, letting them come. The barrier would wake the city tonight with lightning and the aroma of charred flesh as the lesser creatures threw themselves at his prey. Let the boy see what awaited him. Let the precious human look into the eyes of the death he would suffer without Ichigo's mercy.

Other business beckoned, the distinctive power signature that had once caught his attention was not difficult to find, lingering for the third time nearby, but far enough away to not be a threat, politely asking to be noticed. Every one of his kind that achieved individuality was exceptional in one way or another. He still found most of them dull and repugnant, and he had killed a fair number of fledglings.

This one, however, he found interesting. Had it not been for his Toshiro, he might have made Grimmjow his project. Perhaps he still would, once the little human was his. He had never met a fledgling he could stand to meet more than once, let alone one he envisioned as a Vasto Lorde.

He watched from a distance, carefully cloaked, the blue-haired, blue-eyed fledgling sparring with three of his lackeys to kill time. The curses of the lesser beasts echoed against the high walls of the canyon, joined by the taunts of the one they chose to follow, set to the ringing notes of steel on long, sharp claws. Many nights waiting to be acknowledged, and it was wearing on the fledgling's patience. The man's sword remained sheathed, countering the three attackers with nothing but speed, yet it was obvious that it was no effort at all. Such was the gap in power for each stage of evolution.

With a smile, he quietly drew his blade. In the portion of the second it took to gather power and lunge forward with one step, the fledgling tensed, jumped back from his opponents, and had his katana partially unsheathed. Good instincts. Fast. Smart, too, to freeze with a snarl as the black blade rested along the left side of an undefended throat. Behind him, the three weaker creatures had wisely dropped to the ground.

“You look very bored, Grimmjow. Perhaps you need a stronger partner?”

The snarl turned to a savage grin, and he took a moment to appreciate the fledgling. Physically, he was one hell of a specimen, strong without being grotesquely muscled, handsome in a rough sort of way, yet painstakingly groomed in justified vanity, and he did not care to halt his attraction. The teasing, tantalizing boy had him quite on edge, and some relief would be welcome. Well, maybe a thorough fucking would do it. There was no doubt the man could feel the shifting in his aura, and the shudder that ran through that fine body was enough to whet his burgeoning appetite.

Removing the threat, he stepped back, sheathing his sword as the sapphire eyes narrowed in speculation, the toothy grin never dropping. Man had some fine fangs, he noticed, beyond that partial mask. It wasn’t unattractive, though he thought the fledgling would look a lot better without it, better without that hole in his lickable stomach, too. If he helped the fledgling he could ensure its survival, even vastly accelerate its evolution. The mask would vanish soon enough, might as well enjoy the extra décor while it lasted.

He would allow the fledgling free will. It was not often the way with his kind, he could certainly attest to that. Yet Ichigo wholly believed that whether it was talking, fighting, or fucking it was more entertaining when the other party was a willing participant with plenty of pride and spirit. And those Grimmjow had in abundance.

“Get lost!”

The fierce blue eyes did not leave his, and he raised a brow before the scrambling behind him reminded him of the pack, forgotten as they deserved to be. Apparently, the man had already made his choice. He stepped closer, pleased that the fledgling didn't back away, more pleased that Grimmjow wasn't stupid enough to let go of his half-drawn sword. He took one more step and lifted his hand to the thick white remnant, fingers dragging across the ripples of teeth, the smooth plates above and below. He wanted to lick it, to nibble on the sinuously curved edges of bone, perhaps leave a few deep divots in it with his own fangs.

The grin had dropped from the attractive face, lips twitching, wanting to bare teeth but too overwhelmed by his touch, his aura. He knew what it felt like. He had been weaker than this fledgling, nearly newborn, when he was caught by a Vasto Lorde. Caught, spared, and kept for a time.

He remembered the insane terror inspired by that touch, and the compulsion, the absolute and inescapable need to have more. Every time the man had touched him, even looked at him, his knees shook just like Grimmjow's. Now he knew why, though he did not know then just how much strength he gained from that contact, the overflowing power enhancing his own, stabilizing it. And when Starrk fucked him, delirium unlike anything felt before or since, the carnal pleasure an afterthought, nothing to the pure power pushed into his being with every thrust.

“What brings you here, Grimmjow?”

A quickly sucked in breath, and he watched the fledgling fight against the weakness and lust that was surely threatening to overtake reason. The dilating eyes clenched, reopened, a hint of the arrogant smirk returning.

“What else? Found your dragon.”

Steady voice, if a little faint. He was impressed that the young one could speak at all, rewarding and testing bravery by sliding his hand down to the tense neck, enjoying the renewed struggle for control in the deep oceanic blue. He lifted onto his toes, giving the green streak below the left eye one slow, firm lick.

“You have truly lovely eyes, so tempting to let myself drown in. Where is the dragon?”

Lips parted to answer but all that he heard was a deep purr, and he smiled, fingertips drifting in small circles and lines, catching strands of blue hair. A little pull at the back of the neck, easy for the fledgling to resist if that was his choice, and the handsome face willingly came closer, bent lower, erasing the height difference and bringing hot breath to his lips.

“Cat got your tongue? That's all right, young one, you can tell me later.”

He wanted, needed a distraction from his newfound desire for his human, and the fear of loss he had never expected. Yet as the briefly gentle contact quickly turned aggressive, both men forceful, lips shoved aside almost instantly in favor of fighting tongues, clashing teeth, and grunting intensity, he decided this was a little more than just a venting of angry envy. This fledgling was worth more than that in his own right. He would stop thinking that the vibrant eyes were several shades too dark a blue, the frame in his arms too wide and heavy. The creature in his embrace was _glorious_ , and he would value and worship what he held instead of wishing for another in his place.

Sex was not _required_ to achieve the exchange of power, but it was inevitable, the intimacy and ecstasy of sharing power bringing every base instinct to the fore. He would give the big cat what Starrk had given him, the refined vitality of a Vasto Lorde, worth far more than countless souls.

Control slipping, his soon-to-be lover softened in his hold, yielding to his immense power. He brought his right hand up, brushing over what felt like a perfect ass, rounded and firm, up under the open jacket, over the void. Grimmjow was already moaning and somehow still purring into their softer deep kiss, Ichigo petting the man's tongue soothingly. He was enjoying the deep vibration, a sound he was starting to find quite erotic. With those firm lips and aggressive tongue wrapped around his cock, that purr would be quite a treat.

Pulling his head back for a heartbeat, he took in the gratifying sight of the powerful fledgling shaking, barely managing to stand as weight dropped heavier against his arms. One hand had left the sword and latched on to his bicep, claws kneading pinprick holes through his skin, the scent of blood further dilating the pupils which had taken on a decidedly feline shape. He indulged his wish to taste the bony plate along the defined jaw, his tongue flicking out, taking on his own primitive characteristics, long and forked, wrapping around to sample skin between nibbles of mask.

“Ichigo . . .”

The faint whisper was chased by a drawn-out sigh, the long legs finally giving out. He guided the fall, gently, going so far as to use his power to make a thick layer of moss spring out of the harsh rock. The mating of his kind could be tender, could be joyous. More often it was a bloody, violent affair, mutually thrilling in a very different way to creatures such as they. But the disparity of their power made the big cat extremely vulnerable, fragile. Unless he was very careful, there was a risk of destroying his partner simply by exposing the fledgling to this much of his spirit so very close.

“ _Shhh_ , pretty kitty. I've got you.”

Easy, firm, likely the most considerate and warm touches the fledgling had ever known as Ichigo lay partly beside, partly on the larger body. Rough the tongue now, a trait he found very appealing though the slick muscle barely moved to meet the temptation he offered. Too far gone already, wrapped in the enveloping, horrifying bliss of his power.

Oh, he remembered how this felt, a terrifying euphoria he would never feel again, too powerful now to ever be taken in hand like this, senses lost under the crushing pressure of one so much stronger. By now, the fledgling wouldn't be able to speak, barely able to remember his own name, every trembling muscle torn between the panicked need to escape and the requirement to surrender.

Such a perfectly defined physique, smooth and tapering to a surprisingly narrow waist, the flat of the hip filling his palm. Clothing vanished with his touch, the seduction of slowly disrobing not necessary for either of them, and his partner was too far sunk in pleasure already to realize the sudden change as they both were bared, swords dropping unheeded yet within reach. This was not about romance, though Ichigo was going to take his time, take and give pleasure along with power.

The high-pitched purr moved deeper, a rumbling he could feel even when his lips and hands withdrew. He doubted the heavy-lidded eyes saw his fond smile as he moved, finding no resistance as he pushed solid thighs apart to cover his partner. Seeking the origin of the erotic sound, he trailed open kisses down from under the lifted jaw to that lovely softness where the wings of bone met at the base of the exposed neck. The sweet vibrations made him salivate as he sucked on the source, indulging in the freshness that clung to the youngling, a scent and flavor of greenery and wildness picked up from the forests the cat was always roaming, seasoned by the salt of sweat.

“Mmm, you taste like freedom, kitty. So strong, so fierce you are.”

Were his words of praise heard? Or was the weak twisting, the breathless moan just a reaction to his hand becoming intimately familiar with the broad chest, the dark and sensitive circles of flesh pebbling and rising to his touch from the smooth curve of muscle? Just the smallest bite, a bare grazing of fangs along collarbone to sample and savor rich blood before he let his tongue take over, light wetting and slow flicking before letting his lips close to draw gasps and more purrs.

As his hand ran back down the hard side, he was amazed to feel sharp claws dragged up his back. He did not mind at all the sting along the left of his spine, or the trickle of blood that escaped before the wounds closed. It did not seem a gesture of protest, but an aggressive caress, the petting of a predator. He drew his head up to meet hooded eyes, blue a bare rim around blown pupils.

“You with me, kitty?”

Seductive, that darkened look above the wet, open lips, chin tilted down to look at him. It was the hint of awareness in response to his question that surprised him. Grimmjow must be stronger than he had estimated to stay lucid through this, possessed of an intense determination.

“Stupid . . .”

He cocked his head with a grin, but that one word was apparently all the man could manage. The shifting of his weight to briefly join their lips had been just enough to slide his erection from along the fledgling’s hip to the center, and they both groaned at the searing contact that he had been trying to avoid a little while longer. Well, if Grimmjow was strong enough to still speak, to even have a coherent thought while smothered in Ichigo’s aura, then perhaps he could speed things up a bit.

Taking the other’s lips again, he coaxed a little, wrapping his long and agile tongue playfully around the roughened muscle and stroking forward and back, loving the contrast, slick then abrasive, soothing then sharp. He continued molesting his kitty’s tongue, thinking their two appendages quite well suited. Gentle flexing of his hips took away the fledgling’s ability to participate, even the luscious tongue going limp while one single part of the big cat was doing anything but relaxing.

A tickling lick along panting lips with the feather-fine tips of his tongue, then he treated the pointed ear to similar treatment. He was not surprised that so many of Grimmjow’s more primal traits were surfacing, and he was certain the fledgling had no control over it. The wonderful tongue, these long, tufted ears, and _oh, the fangs!_ He raced back to the gaping lips, sliding his tongue all along the row of pearly teeth. Bigger, thicker than his own, true fangs of a great jungle cat, long and slightly curved and oh, so strong. If his new lover agreed to a repeat of this night, the fledgling would only get stronger each time, more able to respond and challenge him. Grimmjow may be too overwhelmed to participate much this time, but those fangs were going to come in handy someday.

Deliberately, he pressed tongue and lower lip into the tips of the canines, drawing his own blood. The cat growled in response, making him grin as he pushed closer, feeling the delicate, hooked spines along the suddenly active tongue scratching, seeking and lapping. Good, his blood would make the fledgling more receptive to his power and provide some protection.

He rolled his hips more firmly, moaning encouragement when the body underneath him responded in kind while nipping teeth opened new cuts. The first trickle of power flowed between them, tentative. He had never done this before, not as the dominant, the provider. He had never desired to share of his essence this way, and he was exceedingly cautious. But it seemed to work, the fledgling drowning once more, hips stilling, head dropping back.

Purring stopped with a whimper, then redoubled as he moved down, trailing kisses and long, long licks along the center-line, sternum to the curve of ribs, stopping to suckle with obscenely wet noises of enjoyment around the edge of the void, tongue dipping within to slurp up luscious samples of his lover's power and feeling the larger man convulse with every stroke.

He chuckled against the fragrant skin and moved on rather than risk the hard cock pushing against his jaw and cheek suddenly exploding before he'd finished his journey. And what a destination it was, as strong and graceful as the rest of the cat, thick with an elegant curve to match the fangs, bending up to drip nectar into the creases of muscles, making dark blue hair glisten black under the red of blood-swollen flesh, scenting the world with lust and virility as he took his first taste.

All the while part of his mind worked to secure the link between his own spiritual energy and that of the fledgling, letting a little more power sink into the creature now writhing and tearing tracks through the moss, leaving scars in the rock beneath as one hand, then the other clenched and released in a fast rhythm to match the growls, pants, purrs. His senses soaked in everything about the alluring cat, increasingly fascinated. He had only sought relief, an outlet for his anger and frustration; he had found something far greater.

  
ooooooooooOOOOOOOOOOoooooooooo

  
When an agile, strong, _really fucking long_ wrapped around and around his cock, the thick, suffocating haze shattered beautifully, drawing his resurfacing consciousness all to one painfully perfect pressure. The scent of fresh blood and his own cum nearly drove him back into insensibility, but he held on, clinging to a different pleasure, familiar and yet new. He had no idea what the Vasto Lorde was doing to him, but it redefined bliss.

That tongue hadn't retreated with his orgasm, coiling and uncoiling, gently then savagely, strangling then petting with delicious winding friction and he finally had enough control to look down his shamelessly spread body to meet glowing yellow eyes full of laughter and wicked lust. _Evil rapist_. That's the only way another man would have him pinned like this, by tricking and drugging him somehow. He would never submit if he was in his right mind, especially for a pretty pansy strawberry.

_Yeah, right_ , he growled at himself before keening like a bitch as another wave of Ichigo's power surged around and through him, almost as good as the slithering along his still-hard dick, and, fuck, now a warm, wet mouth was slowly, so slowly enveloping him while that sinful tongue twisted and tightened.

“FUCK!” His howl echoed off the canyon walls, followed by increasingly breathless and whining moans. “AHH! Ho . . . ly . . . fuck fuck. Fuuuucccck!”

He looked again, startled by yet more new sensations, alarming sensations. The man was grinning and hissing, the odd rush of air right on the very sensitive head, all while sucking and the dark, deeply forked muscle still moved like a separate living thing, slick and warm and trailing down to torture his balls. One sun-yellow eye winked at him, but all he could focus on was teeth glittering in the too-wide mouth, needle fine and far too many, and, oh, _oh shit_ , the bigger ones were clearly serrated and pinching threateningly along his favorite piece of his anatomy.

_Fucking Vasto Lorde was a fucking snake!_ Didn't snakes eat their mates during sex? No, that was spiders or bugs or something. Thank fuck the bastard stopped smiling, he couldn't stand looking at those fangs ready to bite off his dick. There was a hand under his knee, moving him, oh, shit!

He found himself praying for sense to be lost again as he realized that he had no control at all over his legs, pushed wider, he could only vaguely feel them, seeing his knees raised. He knew what this meant, and his mind rebelled even as his body and his instincts rejoiced. The view was usually different at this point, him on top, him positioning whoever was lucky enough to draw his attention. And while he'd gladly fuck any man or woman worth looking at, he'd never put a damned cock in his mouth. He'd never have let his partner climax without his cock deep inside them, either. But the Vasto Lorde was doing just that, kneeling between his legs like he wanted to be there. He seriously couldn't figure this guy out.

Moaning as the impossible tongue-tips flicked like tiny whips along the soft skin behind his once-more aching balls, he reconsidered the advantages of being on the bottom. As much as his pride protested, he was purring and writhing, and his claws were drawing blood again as he kneaded the arm stretched up to fondle his chest. He'd roll over for nothing less than a Lorde, that's for fucking sure, but there was something to be said for being serviced, lying back with no effort while his nerves were set on fire.

Another rush of power swamped his senses for a second or an hour, nothing but smothering pressure, unable to think, to breathe, to even know that he had the ability or need to do either. It felt like death, yet like the greatest high imaginable, every orgasm, every victory, every kill all wrapped into an endless black instant that broke apart in flashes of brilliant pain. Gasping as that agonizing peace was torn away, the world took over. And what a dull, colorless world it would have been if not for the Lorde, larger than life, brighter than sunlight.

“What . . . are you . . . doing to me?”

Hissing, it must be laughter. Oh, the question was funny, alright, as his awareness returned enough to realize that the fiend's cleft tongue had moved on. He had missed any opportunity to fight back, he told himself. Terrifying Vasto Lorde or not, delirious power-fueled drugged lust trip or not, no way in a million years he would have allowed anyone to stick their tongue up his . . .

“AAAH! Oh, fuck!”

Pinprick wounds as hands tightened on his convulsing thighs, his head hit the ground far too hard, his nails back to digging into bedrock as one iron-strong claw cracked and bent backward. None of it hurt, the squirming thing inside him was all his depraved brain wanted to think about. Foolish, _slutty brain_ couldn't even manage to shut up the growling yelps every time the slithering, twisting tongue doubled back on itself, prying him open, while some part of the slick appendage was always dancing back and forth over the most sensitive area, a new and unexplored source of ecstasy.

Back arching, hips lifting and pushing closer to the mortifying, wonderful mouth, he tried to ignore the grotesque slurping, the sound of feasting on a fresh kill. He'd been fucked before, back when he was barely aware, at the mercy of so many, back when he barely knew who he was. _Never like this._ Always it started with a fight for dominance, a scramble of blood and violence, and if you lost you were shoved down, degraded, used; the only satisfaction was in surviving. Pleasurable sex was for fucking humans for entertainment, or for when he was the one victorious and took his pleasure without giving any.

Cumming a second time, spurting cock untouched, bent completely off the ground with the force of it, and that was the last he remembered before blacking out again. The physical pleasure chased him as the next wave of power crashed over his mind, and for immeasurable time he forgot his name, his body, everything. There was no panic as he came to understand that he was being torn apart, whatever he had that passed for a soul was being burnt away, shredded, and reformed by the raw energy of the apex predator crouched above him. There should be panic.

“Easy now, kitty, don't fight it.”

Fight what? He clearly wasn't fighting, classic bitch pose, ass in the air, face in the sand . . . well, the moss anyway. Why would he fight? Admittedly, he didn't remember this even happening, but it was amazing, and he called out a silly name, his name, his lover's name? He couldn't recall. For that matter, shouldn't he recall something as important as getting fucked? Well, he was getting fucked, but he thought he should perhaps remember, you know, like the moment he _got fucked_.

“You can take a little more, can't you? Stay with me, Grimmjow.”

“Mmmm . . . more . . . fuck! More, more, more . . .”

Yeah, he could take a little more. Well, obviously, by the way he was panting and moaning like a whore. Stupid to even ask. Maybe he screamed when the claws digging into his hips clenched and the thrusting pressure increased, but any sound was lost shortly before roiling heat and thick darkness dragged him down, down, drowning in so much ecstasy that it all faded into delicious, _blessed oblivion_.

 


	7. Chapter 7

Starrk had told him it was his soft heart that had caused the Vasto Lorde to spare the feisty fledgling Ichigo had been. He had been teased for it, but also praised and rewarded, the stern Lorde saying that he wanted to preserve that very softness. Ichigo had not understood at the time that the fearsome creature was exposing its own weakness with such declarations. The strange compassion the man had shown, the respect he had given to someone so far below him had made a deep impression on Ichigo. And Starrk had seemed pleased with the Vasto Lorde that was born under his care, another like himself, or so he had said.

Thinking of the white-haired human and how he had not pushed nearly as hard as he could to capture that desirable soul, he thought Starrk was right. He was softhearted. He could have sent nightmares far beyond those the boy conjured alone, could have haunted the child with savage words and bloody deeds, plunged Toshiro into madness and forced the broken human out into the night within an hour of their first meeting. He had done so to many others, but the very thought of doing it to his little jewel-eyed angel was unbearable. No, he wanted to preserve and enjoy that delightfully complex mind. For how long, he could not say, but he knew that he would not want the boy broken. Not by him, and certainly not by anyone else.

Looking down at the magnificent display of satiated masculine beauty below him, he knew Starrk was right. Grimmjow was new, still awash in the wonder of knowing himself, finding his identity. Now the fledgling would face a long road, one that could easily batter his spirit, twist the savage joy in those sapphire eyes into bitter cruelty that would end his growth or lead to yet another soulless monster roaming the night. And his soft heart wanted to prevent that, bring the young one through with that noble head held high, just as it had been done for him.

With a touch, he and the big cat were clean and freshly clothed, the soft mosses restored to cushion the fledgling's rest. He turned and stretched alongside the long frame, propped on one elbow, studying the features relaxed, peaceful. One long finger traced the bony mask remnant, a sliver of power reaching to help wake the fledgling. Dawn was still some time away, but the fledgling would need a little time to recover before using the gate.

“Nnnn . . . ugh. What the fuck?”

“Don't move too fast, you're probably going to feel a bit dizzy.”

Azure eyes snapped open, then closed with a wince.

“A bit dizzy? Fuck . . . my head. What did you do?”

“Hmm. Got you to cum for me five times before you passed out, pretty kitty.”

The big body lurched, likely an effort to get up and punch him. He caught the collapsing man easily, moving to support so that Grimmjow was sitting partly upright, leaning heavily against him. His hand stroked the blue hair, wild with improbable spikes that reminded him of another, one he had never touched.

“The weakness will pass soon. Then you will find you are stronger than you have ever been.”

“Eh? What, ‘cause you raped me?”

His fingers tightened, pulling on the hair he had been petting, forcing the widening sapphire eyes to meet his. His voice was a low growl of warning, barely containing his anger.

“ _What did you say?_ ”

The fledgling could have groveled, and he would have left in disgust. Or clung to such revolting, unrighteous accusations to cover misplaced shame, and he likely would have killed the ungrateful wretch. Or gave some stuttering, vapid apology, played it off as a joke, in which case he would only maim the creature. But the cat had strong instincts; just as when the fledgling first met him, somehow the only possible response that would appease him was found and delivered.

Smooth again, the tongue that licked at his jaw, teased the edge of his frown, tempted him into a forgiving kiss. And it was, all was forgiven, the hurtful comment explained away, only a cat with wounded pride lashing out. His grip loosened. A flick of his power and he took away most of the pain, bites and tears in both their hides healed though the fledgling would have to deal with some consequences as his mind and body adjusted to the sudden power gain.

“You need to be careful for a few days, kitty. Like after an evolution, you'll be a bit unsteady. You can stay with me if you like, until you find your feet again.”

“I'm not a fucking _kitty_ , I'm a panther.”

“Really?” He let his hand massage along neck and shoulder, winning a soft purr. “It is a fact, panthers can't purr.”

“The fuck do you know, fucking snake?”

He chuckled, not commenting on the mistaken identification, nor how the man leaned against his soothing hand, leaned into his warmth with a wary sort of relaxation.

“So, where is the dragon?”

“Hmm? Oh, southwest of the capitol, down the river. I forget the name, a big town that sits where the river meets the sea. It used to have a company of demon-hunters. Only a few of those bastards left there, but now they've got the dragon. Why did you want to know? You gonna hunt it? I wouldn't mind watching that.”

“No. Tempting, but no.”

He moved, shifting a little, the fledgling reacting immediately, backing off with only a second of angry embarrassment at realizing just how completely cuddly their positions were. Resisting the urge to laugh, careful of his companion's pride, he stretched and stood, offering a hand but not offended at the scoff when Grimmjow climbed to his feet without taking the assistance.

The cat did take the next offer, though, two small, multi-faceted gems, clear with a glowing blue-white core of swirling energy. The light caught and set aglow the intense blue eyes quite nicely as Grimmjow brought them close to his face, sniffing and staring.

“What are these?”

“Prime souls, your payment for finding the dragon. You'll rarely find any of such pure power, two of the best I've ever hunted. Your choice, each may be enough to push the two strong members of your pack through an evolution to fledgling. Or keep them for yourself. They are far, far more valuable than a hoard of Spirit Coin.”

“Or eat them. Would this be enough?”

“To make you Vasto Lorde? Who can say? But I highly doubt these would be enough. It takes far more than any other evolution. You gained more power than that tonight from me. I can see your doubt, but the truth will become clear to you once you've had a chance to recover. If you wish for more power, I would be willing to share with you again. But now, I have other business before dawn. Are you coming with me or returning to your pack?”

The fledgling quietly looked at him for several seconds, skeptical but barely hiding excitement. Though instinct screamed at him to claim and keep, tie the fledgling to him, he held himself still and calm. He appreciated the man's independence, the pride that made the naturally dominant male take a step back. Then a cocky grin and the arrogance returned.

“Never ate that cute kid, did you?”

The fledgling was far too sure that he would remain peaceful. The smirk quickly started to fade as he simply stared, debating whether to kill the fledgling after all. It was a risk, getting close to another and then letting the cat survive. Grimmjow was fully aware of his obsession, his weakness, his Toshiro. Kill the threat now, nothing more to worry about. No need to look after the fledgling, no need to wonder if yet another of his kind would try to take his prey. Seemed an easy choice.

He growled as the far weaker but larger male stepped close, eyes now down and head slightly bowed. Again, that soft, deliberate licking at his jaw, his amusement at the primitive submission just enough to break his rage. He stayed silent, waiting for the fledgling's next appeasement.

“I suppose I owe you, Ichigo. We'll find each other again, yeah?”

He grabbed the fledgling by the back of the neck, rubbing his cheek against the softer side of the handsome face, hearing the purr as the cat pushed back against him.

“Clever kitty. You just call out to me if you need help, or if you want to meet. My power will stay alive within you for a long time before it's fully yours, so I will hear you.”

The cat was partly pissed off to hear that he may be tracked like a pet, but still too afraid to do anything about it, the clear killing intent hanging in the air. He watched the now familiar flinch as his hand cupped the bare cheek, the warm skin pushing closer a second later. Pressing his lips lightly to his antagonistic lover's one last time, he watched the blue eyes close, exhausted from the physical effort of their coupling, the mental strain of trying to stay alive in his company, the confusion of emotional turmoil that a primitive, new creature was not at all accustomed to or prepared for. The fledgling deserved to sleep, safe in his arms. But he would not take that choice from the proud youngling, and Grimmjow had chosen to walk away.

“Stay alive, Grimm,” he whispered against those warm lips.

He turned to leave, smiling as the cat stole the last word, stubborn as always.

“Che, watch your own back, strawberry.”

 

ooooooooooOOOOOOOOOOoooooooooo

 

Longing for the dragon was nothing new, but it was so much stronger as he returned to the window. The entire town would be alert, the bravest running out to gaze in terrified wonder at the barrier before retreating into stone basements with the others, whispering prayers. They would think it was the end of the world, and perhaps even they would be fervently wishing for the comforting solidity of the dragon, something very real and visibly powerful between them and the monsters.

He was the only one who understood why the usually peaceful night was torn apart by storms of lightning, screeches of dying demons, the reek of charred flesh. Ever since the dragon left, the spirit barrier was rarely disturbed, and they all thought that it was safe. He knew it had only been so quiet because of the demon, his demon. Ichigo had allowed no others near, so the barrier never lit up with power and death. Ironic, the worst of the predators was gone, and only now the prey huddled in fear.

It was for him. Another arc of light tore by, another dying wail. Dozens by now, maybe a hundred if he counted the small, weak ones who barely caused a spark as they died, the carnage dragging on for hours and the dawn still hours away. He could see others coming across the field, coming to rip him apart. He knew why; the aching in his heart called to them, a subliminal summons and an offering, a plea for relief that he did not know how to silence. Knowing it only made it hurt more, and more would come. How many? Once the demon had asked if the barrier could stop a hundred strong ones. He did not know the answer.

The light caught a new one, approaching more slowly, a glint of primitive intelligence in acid-green eyes. Not as big as some, only vaguely human shaped with spindly limbs and large hands, a scorpion-like tail, mask wide and grinning with many odd green markings. Not in the same class as Ichigo, not even close, but stronger than the masses, he could tell by the hesitation where others simply threw themselves at the wall. This one chose Ichigo's tree, thinking perhaps that coming over the wall would do the trick, not having seen the flying ones dying, their ashes raining down within the wall. Its scream was drowned out, a spectacular display of light as the air burned around it, leaving scorch marks on the mighty tree his demon had created.

Tears, not entirely brought on by the blinding light and acrid fumes, were willfully stopped before they could spill down his cheeks. They had fought before. He had shut the demon out many nights. But Ichigo had never left him. He had always expected it, hoped for and dreaded the disappearance of his hunter. Bizarre enough that such a stunning creature had ever shown any interest in him to begin with. Still, it hurt. Alone again, _unwanted_ , and sick that he felt this way, missing the beast that only wanted him as prey to torment and devour.

But what really hurt, what tore at his heart that bled despair into the night, was that Ichigo would leave him to these. If the untested barrier did not hold, he would be a feast for something like that scorpion demon with the self-awareness of a dog, or his soul would be shredded by a pack of even lesser monsters that were nothing more than instinct and hunger. What really hurt, what brought him to his knees, was that _Ichigo thought him worth no more than this_.

How long he sat with his back against the wall under the windowsill, silently going numb as the demons died, he could not say. For a long time, he wallowed in self-pity. What shook him out of it was a voice, and the thrill that accompanied it before he realized it was not his demon's voice. Another that could speak, another that could make words clear across the empty space. Tones like honey, full of promises, but not as sweet, not as captivating, not nearly as melodic as his demon's voice.

“Come out, lonely soul. I have come for you. You will not be alone anymore; I am here.”

Weak, pathetic, that call. Nothing to the temptation he had faced for so long. Weak, pathetic, the child hiding from the world, hugging his knees and wasting time on regret.

He listened to the cajoling voice and remembered. He had taunted the demon, wanting to see what the demon would make of the strange cat's stranger message. He had fought back when the demon lashed out at him in a fit of what seemed to be jealousy. He had faced down the greatest temptation yet, his own feelings of gratitude and debt. He was no weak prey, not prey at all. Certainly not for these creatures, unworthy of standing where his magnificent demon had stood so many nights.

He rubbed at his face, fists grinding into wet eyes, sighed at his own folly, and slowly got to his feet. Turning with a bored expression, he met golden eyes. Not gold. Darker like brass, not glowing molten like Ichigo’s, white around the edges, not set in contrasting black like Ichigo's. Humanoid, and that caused a moment's trepidation, wondering if this could be another Vasto Lorde.

Calm now, he appraised the demon critically. Cute instead of devastatingly handsome, certainly worth looking at. The figure was slight, not very much bigger than he was, and looking not much older. The shining black hair accented the pale skin and sparkling eyes nicely, a thick, long braid that promised a wealth of wavy hair, though he could do without the strange white helmet, an ugly skull-like thing with long teeth, one huge fang down each side framing an otherwise attractive face.

“There you are. What a pretty thing, too lovely to be left here all alone. Come walk with me, keep me company and I'll be devoted to you, only you.”

He raised a brow, confidence returning when the words were only words. No seduction reached him, no velvet caressed his cheek like a lover's breath. Had he never known Ichigo, would this creature be as tempting? He could see the flash of confusion and annoyance at the lack of response, and he started to smirk, feeling like himself for the first time in hours.

“You will have to try much harder. I know your kind well.”

The creature must be a fledgling, based on what Ichigo had taught him, or very close to becoming one. The barrier was quiet, this one was strong enough that the minor demons kept their distance. It swayed its hips as it stepped closer, one hand running down its side as it smiled. He barely held back a laugh, the insipid prettiness so paltry after the physical perfection that had stood where the unworthy dared tread.

“I assure you, you do not know me, little dove. But happily, we can change that sad fact. Come, let me worship you, angel.”

He did laugh at that, and the quickly suppressed irritation on the demon's face was a fine entertainment. How could such similar words mean nothing at all? His scheming eyes, the haughty tilt of his head, his arrogant smirk would have driven Ichigo wild with hunger, and he could see that it affected this one, irritation vanishing with a look of pure starvation. Stepping forward, he rested elbows on the windowsill and leaned out. He aimed for a sultry whisper, feeling a bit ridiculous but also proud of himself for even trying to torture the demon.

“I am not for the likes of you, beast. Are you too weak to sense the one who has claimed me? I belong to a god among your kind, one who is the endless sky to your faint star. You would be wise to run.”

The thing growled, all effort to seem friendly vanished in arrogance, hunger, and anger. Likely no human had ever spoken such words, even if they had resisted. It was probably unwise; he could feel the heaviness in the air and he recalled the stories of demons sending nightmares, driving humans mad in moments with visions of agonizing death. Who was left alive to tell those stories? And if true, why had Ichigo never done such to him? His only guess was that his demon wanted to win his willing surrender, as Ichigo had said he would.

This new demon had made no such declaration, and the pain that suddenly made him grit his teeth to keep from screaming was just the start. It was trying to get into his mind, the very real sensation of claws tearing into his skull making him clutch his head.

“None stronger are here now. You called, human. You have called me, and _I will have you_. If I must tear your mind apart first, so be it.”

He wanted to reach, to close the shutters, the meaningless gesture that his demon had always honored. But the pain, the searing heat within his head, all he could do was try to hold his splitting skull together as red, red blood filled his vision, the metallic scent overwhelming, salt and copper on his tongue.

As suddenly as it had begun, it ended, and he gasped, hands dropping to the floor. He was back on his knees, head aching, heart thundering, throat burning from a scream he had not even heard, and he scrambled up quickly. The lesser demon stood braced, a sword in one hand, the other clutching at ribs, red soaking through white cloth. He could not stop a grin, wishing he had inflicted that wound himself.

Slowly, deliberately, his eyes moved to the right. Had Ichigo only been gone since early nightfall? It seemed like years since he had last seen that smirk, the intriguing shadows clinging to the flawless form, the hair as unusual as his own, the loveliest blend of sunset and fire. Only a heartbeat he had to admire his demon, as always so clearly seen as if the night did not dare touch. Then Ichigo moved, vanished, blurs of black and white, the screech of metal, and he could not see what was happening too quickly for his eyes to track, though he desperately wished to.

Never once did it occur to him that Ichigo might lose, might be hurt at all. It was impossible as the sky becoming the sea and the sea turning to glass, as impossible as the mythical gods descending to kiss the dirty feet of humankind. And he had no time to build any such impossible doubts, his demon already standing over the fallen, bloody form, one booted foot solidly on the crushed wrist, sword several feet away from the spasming, broken hand, half buried in earth. The pretty face was contorted in pain, fear, defiance as the creature’s free hand was shredded, gripping in desperation at the black blade whose tip rested almost casually on the exposed chest.

The defeated demon was shouting something in a sibilant, haunting language. He stared as the victor laughed, the first sound Ichigo had made, and he couldn’t halt the moan of relief and pleasure that the soft touch of the dark voice brought after long distress and brief but terrible pain. He was sure Ichigo heard it, but he could not even hide in shame, unable to avert his eyes, too eager to see as the black sword pressed down, down, through to an ending.

A twinge of guilt assailed him that he did not feel sorry for the smaller demon. For a brief moment, he wondered why he did not turn away from the cruelty of slow impalement, then he watched unblinking as the creature tried to struggle, something unseen holding its entire body down. His demon was smiling, teeth sharp and shining. Would the demon smile like that, with such glee and hunger, when it was Toshiro pinned down like a pierced and mounted butterfly, feebly fighting to get free?

Slow, so slow, so awful the screaming in a shredded voice, the same caustic timbre that kept repeating over and over and over in the deep recesses of his mind ‘ _Toshiro, Toshiro, my Toshiro_.’ But even in the agony of coming death, the voice was not as terrifying, not as chilling, not nearly as powerful as Ichigo’s. The scent of blood returned, barely familiar enough to identify, the tang only underlying stronger scents. Demon blood should smell putrid, sulfuric. It smelled of something unknown, something of sweltering summer heat redolent with spices, mouthwatering.

The screaming fell into gurgled words and groans, then to gasps, and into silence. It was still alive when the sword withdrew, the killer leaning down to wipe off the blade on a clean patch of blood-soaked clothing before sheathing. Only then did the head turn, looking over the shoulder and up, black and gold seeking turquoise with no change in the savage expression of enjoyment. This time he held back his self-judgment and tried not to think about what it said about him, breath stolen, the unfamiliar throbbing between his legs at the sight of his demon victorious and so very far from human.

Ichigo knelt in the mess of dirt and blood, right hand bigger, thinner, with thick talons several inches long gripping the small chin and drawing more blood as he tilted the grimacing face down to look into eyes darkened to old bronze. A few more foreign words spat through bright blood, curses he assumed, but no parting taunts from his demon, the hand moving like lightning, tearing through flesh and bone as easily as the sword, pulling away as the only living demon stood, a dripping heart pulsing once and stilling in his hand.

The fallen body began to dissolve, breaking apart into specks and small balls of black light and ash as the form faded. Bits of light rushed to the heart, vanishing into the dark, sickeningly wet red mass. And once the body was gone, only a large dark stain on the earth remained. The demon turned, looked straight into his wide eyes, exposed teeth changed to a tight-packed arc of razor-edged fangs, and bit down with an obscene moan that nearly drew a matching sound from him.

All the while his eyes fixed nearly unblinking on the gruesome scene, mind trying to absorb every detail, far too enthralled to stop for disgust or fear. Later, perhaps, he told the small part of his conscience clamoring for him to turn away, to condemn the violence. _Later._ Now, revel in the truth of the predator, blood dripping through clawed fingers, trail of red crawling down to fall from jaw as it worked free another chunk of steaming horror. Clenched teeth with each swallow, clenched stomach in aversion and sympathy for the obvious hunger and relief. Surrender to the desire to take on the task of licking those talons clean, finally realizing the uncomfortable thoughts that had been keeping him awake for what they were.

_Lust. Desire. Longing_. Not only for the clean human image, but for the grandeur of the pure creature within.

His hands clenched tight into the wood of the windowsill to keep from reaching down. He knew what an erection was, had experienced pointless ones that books said were natural and they'd been ignored until they went away. This was different, awake and aware of what brought it on, more intense and insistent on his attention than ever. He thought they were supposed to be enjoyable. It was nothing but painful, and an unwelcome distraction as he focused on keeping his breathing controlled when he wanted to gasp, keeping his face still when he wanted to clench his eyes shut on the image of Ichigo slowly laving his tongue over the empty hand, up each finger, under and around deadly nails.

Too soon the hand was free of stain, and his eyes fixed on the streak of blood from one corner of red lips. _What an honor it would be to lick that clean_.

“Mine.”

The voice of his nightmares, not the soft velvet he wanted to hear. He shook his head. Denial and an effort to shake free of his lewd thoughts.

“ _Mine_ ,” a growl this time, eyes narrowing. “Not for the likes of these, claimed by the endless sky.”

The demon had heard it, his admission of ownership. It was more than a barb thrown at the interloper, the ring of truth undeniable. He opened his mouth to speak, to say it, ‘ _Yours_.’

“Never.”

A strange hiss between those interlocked, fine white daggers, and the demon vanished in the brightening gloom of coming dawn.

He groaned, blessing and cursing the rising sun. His left hand palmed his crotch, making him groan again at the pain and the contradictory urge to press harder. He put his hand back on the windowsill, breathing deeply and trying to recall what he knew. Such things were spoken of among boys his age, he was sure, but he did not speak to his so-called peers. Other than some ribald jokes and lewd comments he only half understood, adults did not speak of sexual matters either, certainly not in any practical terms. He had no father to ask, no mother to make him miserable listening to explanations. The few books with basic human anatomy were conservative or heavily censored, acknowledging that reproductive organs existed but not informing the reader what was to be done with them. Ironically, it was religious teachings that came to mind, the clear warnings of what not to do providing some idea.

Only after he had made up his mind and made his way over to the bed did he consider doing nothing. Wait it out, think of something else. He discarded the option almost immediately, stripping off his clothing entirely and groaning with the relief of some of the pain now that it wasn't constricted by cloth. He was determined to experience what his body was so insistent about. Once he had purposefully propped pillows and arranged himself, sitting up against the headboard, he finally let his eyes take in the scene he had been avoiding.

It was nothing unnatural, he reminded himself, though it certainly looked alarming. More than once, when the demon had flirted and threatened, he had become aroused, felt the stirring below, but it had faded quickly when he became angry. This was altogether different, the familiar become strange, swollen, standing upright, the loose flesh pulled tight to reveal slick skin, even more red than the rest. He was a little afraid to touch that but wrapping his hand around where he usually would hold to relieve his bladder seemed fine, even if it was bigger and harder than usual.

Biting his lip anxiously, he resolved to go slowly, let his body tell him what to do, instinct could surely fill in the gaps in his knowledge. He closed his eyes and replayed the entire event from the moment he heard the lesser demon's voice. Memories were pushed quickly, seeking the moment of Ichigo's return and then slowing, every second stretching out. The easy authority of his demon, so cocky, playing with his rival who was dead the second the Vasto Lorde arrived.

Oh, and the play of muscles, so fluid, a symphony of movement with each step, each swing of the blade, each turn of the tall body on balanced toes. His demon was beautiful, and graceful, and terrifying. His demon was power incarnate, a peerless predator, yet wise and immensely clever. That poor lesser demon, brave to not flee, honored to be killed by such a marvelous creature.

Automatically, his hand began to move, stroking absentmindedly as he envisioned the changing light and shadow, how his demon always seemed to be spotlighted by the moon's rays as if the entire world and the heavens above focused solely on Ichigo as his own eyes did. And why not? What greater creature was there for the moon to fawn over?

A high-pitched noise worked its way up his tight throat as he realized that the awkward pain was becoming something else, tingling in waves over his skin, an odd pressure in his stomach, his hand squeezing, pulling the tightened skin up and down, sliding over the hard core within. And all while thinking of only one being.

What was this? Not love. Only lust. _For a demon,_ for his death waiting to drag him into the shadows. His heart would be held in that clawed hand, still beating while being consumed. Yet the demon's laughter was a song he could die to, his body catching fire every time he heard that requiem. He cursed as his hand moved quicker, picturing the triumphant viciousness in golden eyes, the sharp-toothed grin that would welcome him into the night.

His only regret was that he would not get to live out the fantasies that were only now being born. The second he was within reach of caressing those deadly claws, they would rip into him. The second he was close enough to find out if Ichigo's blood tasted as decadent as the other demon's blood had smelled, his own blood would be spilled instead. And the fangs he desperately wanted to run his tongue over would tear out his throat before he could beg for just one kiss.

His hips started to shift, lifting into his hand, and he felt moisture. Opening his eyes, he saw the slick head of his erection larger, exposed, leaking. He was distracted for barely a second, fingers following the trail of liquid to the source. He gasped, head hitting the headboard as his hips slammed up at the rush of dizzying pleasure. A second later, his fingers brushed the softer, more sensitive skin again, and again.

Damn! _Why had he never done this before?_ He brought his other hand down to take over the pleasant up and down strokes, gripping a little harder and letting his out-of-control pelvis set the awkward rhythm. That freed his dominant hand to explore new territory, skin slippery with seeping liquid that he decided was definitely not urine, much to his relief. Every touch around the tip, around the firm ridge, and _oh fuck!_ around the slitted opening caused piercing, sharp sensation to accent the lower, stronger pleasure of the caressing and squeezing of the shaft.

There were panting moans between his harsh breaths, and he could feel his body struggling toward something. Intellectually, he knew what was coming, but it frightened him as much as it beckoned him on. It was the sudden image of his demon leaning close, his demon's sure hand where his inexperienced one clutched, and the voice “ _Toshiro, Toshiro, my Toshiro_!”

His eyes snapped open again, body jolting, and he cried out as a feeling beyond anything he'd expected or hoped for surged from his groin, through his gut, to everywhere at once, mind reeling in bliss as his hips snapped up again, electrifying him again. Later, he would be thanking the cursed sun that sharp ears were not there to hear him moan the demon's name before collapsing in on himself.

 


	8. Chapter 8

Few things could not be avoided by one who is unwelcome almost everywhere. Religious obligation, unfortunately, was one of them. Every week, Toshiro would take the time to walk to the center of the town to the old cathedral where the Lord of the town and the wealthier citizens filled the more comfortable seats, leaving the plain wood benches to the more common folk. There were smaller churches, three of them scattered around the city so that no one had a valid excuse for lack of piety.

When his mother was still alive, he would sit between her and the old lady in the smaller chapel close to home, still young enough to believe his mother's explanations for the glares and hisses as they made their way in and out of the place that taught compassion and kindness right alongside teaching the flock to condemn outsiders and punish the unrighteous.

When his mother died, he had no interest in the consolation of religion. Eight years old, he was quite wise enough to see through the show, to question the texts. His first absence was not commented on. Even he was allowed to grieve. But granny had set him down after he failed to attend a second week. When her cajoling fell on deaf ears, she proved that she knew Toshiro a little better than he had expected, telling him bluntly that the entire community would turn on him, truly turn on him, take the excuse to chase him out of the city and claim the rumored wealth for their church. Because if he did not attend and pray and pay, then what could he be but evil, a demon's child that would corrupt and harm their fair city?

Eight years old, and he had reasoned that the big church was the only one that might be safe, the presence of what passed for authority would have to do without his mother to shield him. He sat with the rich; no one could deny that he gave silver instead of copper, and the wealthy were on their best behavior. They had little to do with him, anyway, and he sat on the edge with no one beside him, letting his mind wander to his mother, his dragon, and later his demon while he was lectured on goodness.

Time passed, nearly seven years they’d had to become used to him, to realize that he was no threat at all, quiet and respectful and always giving his share. Yet to Toshiro it was no surprise that the space around him was even wider, the murmuring and slightly hushed curses a bit louder. It was no surprise that the topic of the week was demons. It had been two nights ago, the night which would be remembered and put into stories, likely building a stupid legend that would be used to increase offerings at this time every year. The city had stayed awake in terror as the dome roared with lightning and the screeches of dying demons. The city woke to ash covering every surface, the remnants of the burnt corpses that fell through the shield.

Eyes turned toward him frequently throughout the sermon. He paid attention, knowing if he daydreamed like usual until it was over, he would end up stoned through the streets. It was difficult to hold back laughter, the ideas the priests had about demons so very far from what he knew to be true. And he handed over his coin, laughter dying in his throat as he watched the priest drop the fat coin quickly into the pile and rub his soft hand off on his fine robes.

If only they knew. If only he could tell them, watch the horror on their faces as he revealed that yes, the bastard child had called the demons to the city that night, had spoken to the demons and would continue to do so. If only he could laugh at them all, and never set foot within their holy places again.

Instead, he bowed his head with the rest, and then disappeared even more quickly than usual, keeping to the side street and hurrying to escape the mercy of compassionate humans.

 

ooooooooooOOOOOOOOOOoooooooooo

 

He watched for the demon’s arrival, eyes scanning the distant forest which was the limit of his world, as far as he ever ventured during the day. Looking away for only an instant, his eyes checking the horizon, confirming the failing of the light, and the demon appeared, walking across the field, lucky stems of long grass brushing against longer legs.

Three nights alone had not been enough, it seemed, to erase the memories, to even dim the edges of the memories that haunted him day and night. Three nights to sort his thought in his mind and on paper, to apply logic, to reason his way out of his unreasonable reactions to the horror he had witnessed, and it was not nearly enough. Instantly, desire returned with the impossibly clear image of the demon, and he cursed himself as he dropped into the chair, rubbing his face harshly and focusing only on blanking his thoughts for the minutes it took for the demon to close in.

“Are you bored with me already, dear Toshiro?”

Bored. Right. He stood with a smirk, laughing at himself for his foolishness. There was no point fighting this, it was far too strong. The only thing he may be able to do is keep some control, to hide the fact that the demon was the most enchanting, exciting thing he could ever imagine.

“Well, you did set a new standard of entertainment. And now you show up empty handed, no demons to throw at the barrier, no bloody heart to eat. Can you blame me for being disappointed?”

Oh, he lived for the moments when he could surprise the demon. Eyes widening, lips parting, then every muscle tightening as the face lit up in an almost human expression, genuine, carefree laughter ringing out.

“I can show you things far more entertaining.”

There it was, the open palm stretched out toward him. Had the demon only asked with that purring tone of voice when last they spoke, had the demon only looked at him with this kind of heat and hunger instead of that wide grin showing too many teeth, then Toshiro would not even be alive to face this temptation. No, he would have leapt to his death, gladly. Not now. He had faced and accepted that darkness within himself, the twisted part of him that was in love with the night and the demon’s true nature. The demon had lost its chance to take advantage of his moment of complete vulnerability.

“I doubt it.”

Ichigo laughed again and he realized what he was implying, that there was nothing under the sun or moon that could be nearly as entertaining as watching the demon at its worst. He was doing a terrible job of hiding the truth. But what of it? The demon had passed up several opportunities in their time together, merely teasing Toshiro for his slips, his admissions. Maybe he did not have to guard his tongue so closely. Maybe his demon had a vulnerability, as well.

“How you flatter me, my sweet.” Just like that, a little acknowledgment but nothing too damaging. “Though perhaps you are bored with my company because you have other sources of entertainment? Tell me, where is the one who dared to threaten me?”

"Threaten you?” 

Is that what Yoruichi had been doing? How could a cat hope to threaten a creature so powerful? But then, he knew that the merchant’s pet was no ordinary cat. What she was, he had no idea.

“Do not pretend ignorance, human. I have protected you from the hunters, and yet you invite another to step in between us. I will kill your defender, make no mistake. But if you apologize,” the demon's tone somehow added playful to menacing, “I may let you watch again.”

He met the gold eyes swirling with rage and suspicion, faced the bared fangs without flinching for seconds that seemed like an eternity. He was certain of the demon's angry possession and entitlement, and now he also suspected jealousy. Toshiro knew he was in great danger in more ways than one. The demon's rage was very real; the creature made no secret of its desire to kill him. But the real danger was in his growing enjoyment of this terror, and his addictive sense of control over the monster that came back night after night, came back to him, wanted him, would kill for him.

“Ichigo, I swear I do not know what you are talking about. It was just a cat, not even my cat. If there was a threat to you, if such a thing is even possible, I swear I know nothing of it. Haven’t I made it clear enough? I will not let you have me, so I certainly won’t just lie down and let anyone else kill me.”

When the demon’s glare softened, stretched lips relaxing into an almost kind smile, he let out the breath he hadn’t consciously been holding. Another move in the game they were playing with rules Toshiro could only guess at, a game with only two goals – survive another night, and rediscover joy. Thanks to a demon.

“I believe you, sweetheart. Beware. You know I am not the only one drawn to your light. Beware, when I am not here to defend my claim.”

He wanted to ask ' _Why, then, did you abandon me over actions that were not my own? Why would you not stay and listen? Why did you let them come so close?_ ' He knew why. He knew the demon bathed happily in his tears and sorrow. He knew the demon meant for him to learn a lesson. He hoped his demon didn't yet realize that he had learned a much deeper and more dangerous lesson than was intended.

“He was not a Vasto Lorde . . . the other demon?”

“Of course not. Barely a fledgling, and now he is nothing. Did you weep for him, my sweet? Did you enjoy his company? Did you find him attractive?”

“Weep? No. But it was interesting to speak to another of your kind, even so briefly. And he was attractive, wasn’t he?” Another flash of yellow in the gold eyes. _Jealousy_. “Hundreds of your kind were burnt to ash, and that fledgling died on your sword. Do you feel nothing for their deaths?”

“For them?” The orange hair ruffled as the demon’s head tilted, and he may have blushed as he usually did. “I feel a great deal, human, but not for them.”

Ichigo moved, one quick step and the bright eyes blinked, the cheeks flushing redder as he settled in the tree. The branch was wide and strong now, his Toshiro did not need to lean out the window to see him, so close, so very far away.

“All that exists is merely energy, my sweet, even you, and the greatest joy of life is having the power to own and use energy as you see fit. When you can hunt and capture your own meals, then you can judge me for my choices.”

It might be the most delightful thing about his perfect prey, the way the boy stopped and thought. Few humans in his experience were capable of such. Most became irrational when their views were challenged, shutting out any logic in anger, shame, or simple ignorance. Not Toshiro. The lovely eyes narrowed, head dipped in thought, fine brows drawn together as the clever child not only listened to his words but weighed them fairly.

“But you have admitted that there are no further gains to be made, no higher evolution to reach. So the fighting, the killing, it is just for satisfaction. Was it as satisfying as it seemed, the death of that fledgling?”

“My last visit to this world was _quite satisfying_ indeed, for both of us, little beauty. I am glad you find me attractive, anyway. Attractive enough to give you great pleasure.”

What a treat that had been! A hot meal to assuage his hunger and watching the boy watching him, a memory he would hold onto for eternity. Cute Toshiro was blushing again, thinking he did not know how painfully aroused the boy had been. Innocence discarded, those eyes had been lascivious, raking over his form as he made his kill, molesting him as he fed, shouting clear as sin exactly what the boy would do if they were touching.

“How you flatter yourself, demon,” such bravado, trying to cover the sensitive reaction to his closeness, the purring praise in his voice. “There is nothing attractive about a murderous creature like you.”

“Such a liar. You should work on your deception, my sweet. It’s hardly convincing when I clearly remember you drooling and panting as you watched me. Or were you simply _hungry_?”

Flustered face, narrowed eyes, still trying to pretend not to know what he was talking about. Yet the dilated pupils followed as he licked his grinning lips. It had been the greatest shock the astonishing human had yet delivered, to stand there on the brink of orgasm when any other would have been fleeing in horror or falling into madness. There was something awakening in the boy apart from lust, something very rare indeed, something _gloriously savage_.

“Have you . . .. Demons kill humans, live on humans, I understand this. You have told me that demons start living by eating other demons. Is that all your life is? You have said your kind have no children. Have you had no friends, then, no mentor or student, no lover among your own? Is everything about hunger? Do your kind see each other only as food?”

Chuckling again, amused by the way the brilliant mind twisted words to avoid admitting truth, refusing to simply ask what he wanted to know. Emotions were more honest, telling him what the boy really meant. Did Hollows lust after anything but souls and blood? And the real question Toshiro refused to ask - was there any chance Ichigo lusted after more of the beautiful human than just his soul?

Perhaps he should bring his chosen fledgling here, show the human just how his kind could see one another when they wished and just how deep hunger could run. Oh, imagine it, the outrage! Or not. His Toshiro may just react with a very different kind of fire should he ravish Grimmjow here for the boy to witness. The boy had already displayed raw lust when Ichigo stood over the defeated form of his rival, a dark streak of what humans would label depravity.

To Ichigo, the new aspect of his Toshiro was nothing but magnificent, the boy on the road to reveling in blood and violence like one of his own kind. He was sorely tempted to push the boy, thoroughly seduce and tease. Too young. Young enough to let lust overthrow reason, and where was the fun in such an easy victory? No, he would wait. He had all the time in the world to wait. And when the boy was a man, when Toshiro understood fully what waited for him in the night, then Ichigo would have his prize and make his choice, all that Toshiro was or ever would be in his hands to do with as he wished.

“That is a question I would have expected when we first met.”

“Why? I didn’t care . . ..”

He heard the pearly teeth snap shut on yet another admission. Yes, it was too soon. His Toshiro had figured out how to fight terror and degradation but was badly outclassed when it came to controlling his own body and its growing desires. There was still a great deal of pleasure to be had here. His wonderful little human was still very entertaining, which gave him a rare reason to pay attention to life and time.

“Did not care about me and my desires? Did not care about your own fate? Both, isn’t it, sweetheart?” Toshiro was about to become angry, defensive. “Relax, little beauty. I am in no position to judge your feelings of then or of now. I cared for nothing but the chance to eat your soul when I first saw you. You are not the only one who can change.”

Dangerous ground. The boy stood, leaning out the window, peering closely at him with eyes too perceptive for a child.

“And how have you changed, Ichigo?”

Evade? Truth was always the greatest weapon, especially with the curious young man.

“Can you not answer that, my Toshiro? When we first met, I would have torn this city apart at the first sign of another stealing you away from me. When we first met, I would have killed that fledgling and then killed you for even speaking to another hunter. I have learned many things in our time together. For one, I have learned to trust your resilience and enjoy the effort of winning you.”

“This is not new for you.” The boy settled back in his chair, speaking with such arrogant confidence. “This game is one you’ve played before.”

He stretched himself out, laying on his side along the branch, feeling the new wave of desire from the cold child who refused him even the right to change.

“I have lived a long time, my sweet, a very long time indeed. I could tell you that I have only once spent more time conversing with a human than required to earn their soul. I could tell you that I have never before sought out a human or any being over so long a period of time. You will not believe me, anyway.” Turquoise eyes rolled, a hint of a smile vanishing with a _tsk_. “When I returned to you on our last night, the scrawny little bastard was causing you pain, was he not?”

“He was. It was as if . . . as if he was sending thoughts, nightmares, right into my mind. I had read that demons could do this, and people talk about it. It’s one of the reasons they say to never speak to a demon, never look them in the eye or they can drive you mad.”

The boy did exactly that, rested his chin on his interlocked hands upon the windowsill and looked him directly in the eye, more curious now, softer, though still analytical. The unspoken question was practically shouted, ‘ _Why didn’t you?_ ’

“Tell me what you saw.”

Lids dropped under pinched brows, the pretty face shaking side to side with a dark scowl.

“Nothing specific. Blood, pain, fear, something dark reaching for me. The pain was worse than anything I've felt, and it wasn't even real. It seemed to last forever but I think it was very, very brief. Had it continued . . .”

“It didn’t. And it was nothing, my sweet. When we met, I considered using such methods. You would not have lasted even that long. A weak Hollow like that is nothing compared to what I would have done, what I could do. Ten breaths and I could have you certain you had witnessed your dear mother slowly torn apart and eaten by your dear dragon while you watched and did nothing to save the one or stop the other. You would beg me for death, believe it justified. Or I could simply force you to think your mother stood right here, and you would run to be in her arms never knowing it was illusion. That would be a fine way to die, wouldn't it, your mother's kiss and a warm embrace?”

The boy had stood trembling with arousal watching him devour a steaming heart, never once hiding from the grisly death. That was different. That was an enemy. His words earned an increasingly rare flinch from his prey. _His prey_ . . . at the moment that was true, his senses catching and cherishing every sign of fear and anger and defiance. Yet, Ichigo suspected . . . no, he knew that he could indulge in this torture precisely because he would not do any of those things to his Toshiro.

“I would not do such a thing to you now for all the souls in this world.”

The bold truth, though he felt the disbelief in both he and his prey. The stark truth, and proof that even the oldest of an ancient race can change.

 

ooooooooooOOOOOOOOOOoooooooooo

 

Change. It was something Toshiro always sought, always strove for. Become stronger, more resistant to the pain of the world and every human in it vilifying him, rise above the heartache. It was the one pure and loving human to ever grace his life that was dead, leaving him surrounded by the ignorant wrath of those still alive in their filth while she was gone. It was a nameless, voiceless being that others called a beast that kept his heart alive, only to abandon him, too, leaving without a backward glance. And it was a creature all humans called pure evil that he longed to be with, be closer to, the rest of his life pale and cold compared to the hours in the company of a demon.

He succeeded in many ways, changing his place in the world little by little. He had a life by day for the first time since he was too young to remember, places where he was tolerated, and a very few places where he was welcome. There were people who talked to him, some with a sneer of distaste, and a very few who seemed to have forgotten that he was the bastard orphan marked by evil.

Slowly, cautiously, he approached tall gray gelding. This one was magnificent, built almost perfectly according to the texts that taught him about angles of the bones and width of the chest, all covered in silver circles against dark gray like a storm. He was labeled wild, broke to saddle but unpredictable. Toshiro had watched the horsemen shrug their shoulders and walk away. They casually mistreated the gelding, not unreasonably, just a heavy hand here, a rough jerk of the lead there, arguing pointlessly with a creature that spoke a different language. From what he could see, the gelding had every reason to be flighty and nervous about humans, and the stable hands and trainers didn’t bother to try to earn trust.

Eventually, the stablemaster would get around to working the gelding. The man was gentle, wise with horses if not with other men. Eventually, the gelding would get proper handling and training, when the stablemaster had the time.

Toshiro did not bride the gelding with sweets, simply offered a quiet presence with no expectations. Horses were easy. Huge, intimidating, capable of breaking him into a thousand pieces with a casual toss of their head or stomp of their hoof. But they were not like men. They did not act with spite unless given good reason to lash out at every human. The gray had no reason to fear or hate him, and accepted Toshiro’s presence without rancor.

He took to waiting for his time with the stablemaster in the gelding’s paddock, leaning on the fence or eventually sitting vulnerable in the dirt near the solid hooves, sharing the occasional scratch or nuzzle and reading whatever small volume he had tucked in his pocket. Then, when the man remembered his end of their bargain, he would be called to his lesson and leave the gray with a fond pat on the neck.

“You can come get me when you’re done with your work, you know?”

The corner of his eye caught the man cleaning one of the paddocks spitting in his direction. Only the owner of the place benefited directly from Toshiro’s work, and only the owner treated him decently. He was safe with the stablemaster nearby, and he was safe in the paddock with the gray that no one approached for fear of the horse’s temper, which was not temper at all.

“That’s alright. I enjoy just visiting the horses.”

The stablemaster was not an old man nor young, not particularly big, lean from a lifetime of working with animals that sometimes required a firm, confident hand and agility. And he was calm, with the honed ability to read body language. But Toshiro had always thought the man either did not pay attention to the tension between humans, or he did not care to force his opinions on his staff, not for Toshiro’s sake, anyway.

“Horses are good judges of character. ‘Specially the ones that got their guard up. What should we name the new guy?”

They stopped beside the small, placid mare that had been entrusted to teach a small, inexperienced rider, and he looked up at the stablemaster with surprise. People could change. He had seen it, after all, with the old farmer, the blacksmith, several others he worked with. True, they had to have incentive, the benefits they got from his hard work. But they could change. They could learn that Toshiro had done nothing to deserve hatred, even if he had done nothing to deserve love.

“I’ve been calling him Kumori.”

“A good name. By the time you learn everything Hana here has to teach you, I should have Kumori ready for an experienced rider. If you're up for a challenge, that is.”

Toshiro hid his smile as he untied the quiet mare. Little changes could add up quickly, he thought, and forced himself to hold his head a little higher as he led the mare passed the stable hand who added a rude hand gesture to his spitting.

Later that night, after dinner with the old lady, Toshiro sat in his office with supplies he had gathered some time ago with an idea. He had several journals that he had made by hand, basic binding of paper, wood, leather. He had filled one and started another full of nothing but questions to ask his demon, questions about everything and anything he could think of. He had filled two and started a third with small print, page after page dated with the details of each encounter, every word he could recall, every expression and reaction.

This one would be different. He was painstakingly careful, devoting the entire night to creating the book. Not as big or as grand as _A Complete History of Seireitei_ , of course. No golden lettering or glossy pages of art. But it would do, high quality paper and solid binding, waterproofed leather to protect it all. He lifted a heavy calligraphy brush, taking his time to visualize each stroke of black ink, watching it seep into the cover with a grin, wondering if circumstances would ever lead to a matching grin as Ichigo read the title, _Of Demons_.

 

ooooooooooOOOOOOOOOOoooooooooo

 

This world was not so different from the world that drew most of his thoughts. A human might see vast differences, he supposed, starting with the very structure of the place, for this world was a plane surrounded by formlessness, as some in his Toshiro's world saw their own reality, mistakenly.  This one was always linked to the empty desert of home, one that he had walked long before gates opened to the world that would one day produce a beautiful bright-eyed boy with an incomparable soul.

This world was old, as frozen in time as most of his own kind, barely changing while other worlds were unrecognizable visit to visit. Ichigo sometimes found that comforting, a place that was familiar no matter how long he stayed away. At other times, the same factors made this place unbearably dull.

Only the strongest hunted here, for good reason. Most chose another world linked to home, a world brimming over with humanity. There, hunts were relatively easy, though in a strange twist of fate, that world and this were also linked. Here lived some of the only humans who could travel between worlds like his kind could, though they were far more limited. Here lived souls that lasted hundreds of years, souls that dedicated themselves to hunting the hunters. And often, these hunters would travel to the neighboring world specifically to hunt down his kind.

All worlds seemed to have this in common, that only one soul out of hundreds of thousands really shone brightly. Only here, those remarkable souls gathered in one place and fought back, unlike everywhere else where the jewels were scattered in the middens. The souls that were readily available were mostly average, nearly powerless. One must eat many of them to feel any benefit, so it was Hollow who were strong but much lower than a Vasto Lorde that came here, the kind still driven to eat and eat. Though, if one could catch one of the better hunters who called themselves Shinigami, it was a meal well worth the effort.

It was risky, they tended to travel in packs with weapons that could kill a lesser Hollow with one solid blow and even harm or kill a fledgling with enough power behind the attack. The truly astounding souls were hard to tempt away from the city full of fighters, and Ichigo had only succeeded once, by sheer luck. He had better fortune hunting through the mass of tasteless souls for one or two rare gems, souls with power not yet found by those in the city of hunters.

“Why did I let you talk me into this?”

As if he didn't know. He had not expected the rush of pure pleasure that the fledgling's call had caused. It was more than just a break in the bland landscape of existence, he already had a very effective source of diversion. No, somehow he looked forward to seeing the cat again, had in fact been wishing to seek out the fledgling but resisting. When he heard Grimmjow's call, an almost audible voice in his mind, he would probably have gone anywhere and done anything the fledgling asked.

Grimm smirked over his shoulder. If the big cat was in his other form, his tail would be lashing, paws tensing, ready to pounce. Ichigo lounged on the sloped roof of a rather flimsy structure he supposed was meant to be a house. The residents were as bored as he was, nothing to do but sit around all day, too weak to sense the two powerful predators above their heads. Souls here were different than in most worlds, not needing anything, food, heat, none of it mattered unless they had some motivation. And humans were rarely motivated without needs that had to be met for survival.

Perhaps that was what distinguished great souls – real power came from will instead of basic necessity, not the other way around. His white-haired darling was a perfect example. Toshiro needed do nothing but breathe. The boy had a home and apparently was able to survive yet was driven to learn and know. He certainly did not need to risk his delicate neck facing down a Vasto Lorde. Not that it really mattered, just another idle thought to pass the time.

“Is this what’s gonna happen to me, someday? Become a Vasto Lorde and just sit around, forget the thrill of the hunt, obsess over some random human kid, complain about everything?”

His growl changed Grimm's smirk to a sneer, reminding him exactly why he took the fledgling’s invitation. Grimmjow wasn’t fearless, because he wasn’t stupid. No, the cat knew exactly who and what he was taunting. He could see the tightening of muscles, hear the speeding of the heart, and yet the fledgling pushed boundaries. It made his mouth water every time.

“Bring the human up again, and you won’t have to worry about your future.”

“Oh, come on. You wanna talk about him, it’s written all over you.” He stood slowly from his relaxed sprawl. “Not that I give a shit. I get why you want him. I don’t get what you’re waiting for.” Within reach of the fledgling, and the confidence drained from the handsome face, words starting to spill unchecked. “Course, never liked the taste of young ones, myself, lacking something, like humans talking about aging that stuff they drink that makes ‘em taste funny.”

The fledgling tensed, leaning away but not fleeing as he reached. Muscles and tendons strained beneath his hand, high and tight under the jaw, thumb and forefinger squeezing hard enough to make the fine fangs clench. One hand was on the sword hilt, the cat not running, not trying to pry his hand away, but ready to fight. And for that, the spirit and defiance, bravery with a hint of trust but enough sense to prepare, for that arrogance the fledgling was not only spared but rewarded. Ichigo couldn’t resist it, found the entire package undeniably sexy. Softhearted, he couldn’t deny it, up on his toes to silence the proud tongue, his other hand around the muscular waist to yank the hard body closer, not minding in the least when sharp teeth cut his tongue and the cat growled in bliss.

Hours of waiting, it would be at such a moment that the group of hunters showed up to be hunted. Just as the fledgling relaxed in his hold with another smirk, so full of himself for getting away with taunting Ichigo yet again, he had to let go, lingering another moment to drag his teeth over the mask remnant, just enough to leave lines that would heal over too soon.

“Hmm. Two decent ones, eight that I’d just as soon ignore. You hardly need any help.”

Still, it was wise to ask him to come along. It was rare, but every now and then a truly strong hunter would be with these little packs roaming through the dirty streets. He knew why, having spent enough time here observing, knew they were organized as a military group with the wonderfully intoxicating souls in charge of the weaker ones. He remembered some good hunts here.

“Dammit.” Sapphire eyes blinked, only slightly dazed. “I was hoping they’d read the two of us and send someone worth eating. Hey, those two are pretty strong.”

“If you say so, kitty.”

He ignored the growl, observing the small group fanning out to surround the building as the weak souls finally fled, more afraid of their defenders than the attackers they hadn’t even noticed. Unwise tactic. In a single group, they might have had a chance of at least drawing blood. His fledgling needed no further prompting, leaping down and tearing through three of the weaker ones before the rest even reacted.

Time was a slippery thing for Ichigo, as it was for all his kind. How long ago had it been, the memory surfacing in the familiar setting? He had been so brash, confident in his ability. Stupid. Did he even have a name then? He remembered a fight not unlike this one, though he was not alone. Was it even here? Yes, very far out toward the edges of this reality, farther out than he'd ever expect to encounter one of their strongest. Fuzzy, but he did remember others, more Hollows like himself, evolved enough to speak and work together taking on a big pack of these hunters. 

He watched Grimm kill another, maim a fifth, leaving the two stronger souls and one other, backing off to play with them. The fledgling was licking blood off his claws to enrage the survivors, and Ichigo suddenly smiled, thinking of his pretty human and the sheer lust burning the empty space between them as he slowly dragged his tongue across his talons.

Not shouting a warning to the fledgling was deliberate; Grimmjow would be insulted, and if the fledgling needed help with this then it wasn’t worth his time. The two stronger ones were capable of special attacks, as he had seen before. One was using an elemental attack, fire, not uncommon. The other seemed to be using soundwaves, attacks that could be surprisingly damaging with enough power.

The one he had faced long ago was stronger than these, though injured as the warrior eliminated at least a dozen Hollow before they were the last two standing. That one had powerful attacks, not elemental or subtle, simple raw bursts of power. He’d witnessed others disintegrated, burnt away to nothing at all, but the Shinigami wasn’t capable of much by the time Ichigo got to him.

Yes, he remembered watching another Hollow and thinking it clever, adopting its technique of attacking and retreating behind the living enemies so that the strong one could not use the broad waves of black spirit energy without killing comrades. It had worked, wearing the fighter down. Bleeding, dizzy, barely able to raise the long, black sword . . . his hand went to his hilt and he shook away the memory, confused by the strange vision of facing himself, his own body dressed in silly robes, his own sword held up as a shaky shield flickered between himself and a monster licking his blood from its long, black claws.

Now was not the time to get lost in the past. His attention focused on the fledgling, knowing that Grimmjow was showing off for him, dodging the combined attacks and the weaker one who tried to sneak into the fight. Sometimes, these souls insisted on one-on-one duels. They must know how badly they were outclassed, Grimmjow laughing as he finally drew his own blade with his right hand as his left cut the weakest one across the back, deep enough to send the shocked fighter to his knees.

The fledgling was fast, and smart enough to know how to use that speed, never giving the other two a chance to think and adjust, striking repeatedly to keep them on the ground and on the defensive. He grinned, letting his approval and amusement reward the cat for playing with the mice. Grimmjow wouldn’t gain much, two souls that were worth hunting but not true delicacies. That was okay; he would make sure to give his fledgling as much power as the cat could handle once they were alone again.

The two still alive were calling encouragements to one another while cursing his fledgling, Grimm smirking and making a point of devouring the energy of the fallen while the last still lived. His laugh drew a startled look, a shout of panic as they truly noticed him for the first time. He considered telling Grimm to let them live. Now that they had taken his measure, they would surely call for help. The strongest ones would come, the ones who wore white coats and could challenge even him, especially if more than one came.

But then, he would have to wait. Witnessing the fledgling drawing blood and laughing, seeing the agile body dance around the enemy as if there was no danger . . . he did not want to wait. A flick of his wrist, a wave of black energy that made distant memories flash in his mind again, and the one that was desperate enough to have leapt into the air to try to strike him was obliterated, only a harsh scream lingering.

With a deep growl, the fledgling grabbed the other one by her swordarm, nearly tearing her arm off just before his teeth tore at her throat with unnecessary but thrilling violence. He watched, drooling just a little, from his high vantage point, eyes locked on bright blue glowing with the pleasure of the battle and the feast until the clawed hand and thick fangs withdrew, letting the shell drained of soul disintegrate.

“What a fuckin’ waste.”

“Waste of time on weaklings? Or are you upset I destroyed one?”

Another growl, a toss of the sneering head, and his patience ran out. One step and he tackled the fledgling, knocking the larger man into the dust. He didn’t care if the resident souls crawled back to their hovels to find two Hollow fucking in the street, and he certainly didn’t care if more Shinigami came. That would, in fact, be a fun little treat. They could enjoy a final show before he killed them.

“Get the fuck off me!”

He had only begun licking his fledgling clean and intended to do a thorough job of it, the big cat squirming and scratching, trying to push him off while already starting to purr. Swiping a streak through the blood coating the sharp teeth of the mask remnant, he trailed his tongue into the parted lips, silencing false protests and letting the feisty fledgling bite his tongue, feeling claws pushing at the protective layer of power around his skin.

“Don’t lie, Grimm. You didn’t need me to guard your back. So, there's only one reason you called.”

Still, the fledgling fought, more out of habit than any real objection. Well, perhaps the proud creature didn’t feel quite the same way he did, not wanting even these insignificant souls to see him pinned and fucked senseless. Fine. A small concession to make. And yet the angry blue eyes blinked up at him, the cat still sprawled and lightly panting as he stood and offered a hand up.

“I . . . I didn’t mean . . .”

Holding back laughter that would set off the prickly thing again, he cocked his head with a mild smile. Interesting. It was not only his Toshiro that blushed so charmingly when he did that. He leaned back down, grabbed the fledgling’s hand, and yanked the man up, pulling him flush against his body before opening a gate.

Apparently, he was right about why his lover was so argumentative. How strange. Once they had stepped through onto the cold sands, he was the one being knocked down, allowing the larger man to push him. It wouldn’t last long, anyway. Grimm had shown surprising strength the first time and was able to stay lucid at least halfway into the last time, but Ichigo’s power was still too much for the fledgling. Still, he enjoyed the aggression, and let the cat maul his neck, one clawed hand wrapped around his neck to keep him down.

Chuckling under the teeth that he allowed to pierce his skin multiple times, he worked his legs apart, wrapping them around the big cat, letting Grimmjow think for just a while that he might submit. He would, someday, if the fledgling continued to accept power and companionship. It wasn’t a question of willingness, Ichigo was not the type that denied himself the pleasure of getting fucked out of some bizarre association with pride. It was more a question of ability. Already, the amount of blood the roughened tongue had swiped off his neck was making the fledgling start to falter, weight coming down heavy on him and breath turning into those deep purrs the cat would hold back if he weren't falling under Ichigo's power.

He would give the fledgling as much as he could again. The cat was strong-willed. Though he'd never done this before, he remembered his time with Starrk. He had stayed with the Lorde, not that he was given a choice, and was constantly exposed to immense power. Still, it had taken what seemed an eternity before he was clear-minded throughout a session of power-exchange, longer still before he had enough will to initiate sex or try to take control.

It was something to look forward to, he thought as he pushed the larger body, flipping their positions easily. Just enough control left to glare at him, the fledgling gave up more quickly than before, relaxing beneath his lips, allowing the connection between them to strengthen. He pulled back with a hiss, instantly pushing some of his power to heal the chunk of his lip and cheek the fledgling had bitten off. Bared, bloody fangs, a last flare of defiance that was more an expression of worth than of actual resistance.

“That's my kitty, so fierce. Give me everything you've got, and I'll give you eternity.”


	9. Chapter 9

Toshiro held up the glittering length of metal, inspecting it link by link through the monocle, trying not to get distracted by the wonder of the device the jeweler called a loupe. That the man had shown it to him at all was a sign of the trust he had earned. To be permitted to use it . . . he knew the worth of fine glass, and he knew the device of curved pieces had to be worth more than half the display case in the front of the shop. It had come from Seireitei, of course, and was one of the jeweler's greatest treasures.

“That's good work, young man. Mind the twists. Shame to go to all that effort and have links that don't match.”

A thin finger pointed out two locations, and sure enough, the magnifier revealed that the links weren't lying even, ruining the shine of the flatter surfaces of silver. And the man had seen it without any aid, from the distance over Toshiro's shoulder. He must have eyes lie an eagle, Toshiro thought with a brief smile. Such was the value of experience.

“Ah, I see, thank you.”

The man nodded and moved off, leaving him in the solitude of the workshop, another sign of trust that he had enjoyed for some time now. After just over a year of accounts and paperwork, the jeweler had finally taken his advice on changing supply lines. Rather than ordering metals raw and painstakingly working them into flats and wires, Toshiro had written to a well-known silversmith in a bigger town, one with several apprentices to do such basic work. That shop got better rates for buying in bulk, and the jeweler, who was no young man and spent far too much time on low labor, paid the same rate for prepared metal that he used to pay for raw materials.

Toshiro had figured everything out now. The blacksmith trusted him because he saved the man a small fortune with proper billing and a similar reworking of supply sources. The jeweler trusted him because he saved the man needless labor allowing him to focus on what was profitable. The stablemaster trusted him because Toshiro had brought order and profit to the absolutely indescribable mess that passed for account books. Similar stories on large and small scales all over the city, and now he knew. Humans only gave you any consideration at all if you were a relative or of financial benefit to them. It was just as he had once told Ichigo, ' _Do you understand this, demon? Humans will do just about anything for wealth_.' Including tolerate the presence of a bastard child despised by the entire city.

Armed with this knowledge, he had approached the bookseller again, hoping to renew their tentative friendship through providing monetary gain. The odd merchant had cut back on his visits to the city, coming only three times in the past year, and Toshiro couldn’t shake the feeling that this distance had something to do with him, Yoruichi, and the demon. Their interactions had been strictly professional since the day he had listened to the bizarre ‘conversation' between merchant and cat, the day he had been denied access to books about magic. Even Yoruichi eyed him from her perch on the wagon or on the merchant's shoulders, no longer pouncing on him. But she stared. Incessantly.

He was surprised and greatly dismayed when Urahara turned down his proposal. It was simple enough, the man already traveled from the larger city upriver to their town. All he had to do was pick up a list of goods already paid for and packed, deliver them to the silversmith and the dry goods store, and collect a decent sum, far more than he could make selling his remedies and books, and he wouldn't even have to change a thing about his routine other than following a dependable schedule.

Working with slow care, he laid the chain down and focused his attention on the two flawed links. No use continuing until they were perfect. This was silver, the first skilled piece he was allowed to work in such a precious metal, and he would not fail. Allowed might be a strong word, he thought with a huff. It was his choice to take lessons in exchange for his work, saving the jeweler even more money at the small cost of time. Time the man enjoyed, never having found an apprentice with talent and integrity. And, in the end, the store would sell anything Toshiro made up to standard, further lining the jeweler's pocket. Not this piece, though. He had paid for the metal and intended to keep the chain.

He lost track of time, adding length to the chain bit by bit, completely absorbed in the precision work. There were many things he had come to enjoy. In fact, when he really thought about it, Toshiro enjoyed almost everything about his life, from maintaining his garden and home, to practicing riding and sword work, to the stacks of paperwork that taught him more than the books that filled his house.

“You're still working? It's nearly dusk.”

He blinked up at the man, only then realizing that the loupe was still cradled tightly against his right eye, held there by a simple leather strap. He shouldn't have worn it so long, his eye aching a bit as he tried to refocus without the magnifying glass. Nearly dusk. He did not have to prepare dinner for the old lady, she spent some nights dining with friends. And unless there was another time skip he had not accounted for, Ichigo would not be visiting until tomorrow. He tidied his space, then realized the man was watching him, a strange, confused expression on his face.

“It's nearly dusk.”

Shit. Of course. He hurried to his feet. Any normal citizen would chance the dusk cautiously and be indoors by nightfall. Only the bravest might visit a neighbor after dark, hurrying from door to door as if wood and stone could stop a demon. Not one citizen had been killed by a demon within the city in Toshiro’s lifetime, first the dragon, then the barrier protecting them, not that it stopped any death from being blamed on demons.

He tried to make his face show a little panic, tried to add some fear to his voice to counter the suspicion on the jeweler’s face. That’s how deep trust ran, one slip and he would be an outcast again.

“I’ll have to run to make it home before dark! I’m sorry, I’ll come tomorrow to clean up.”

“No need, lad. Just get yourself home and I’ll see you next week.”

Good. He brushed passed the man now relaxing. Toshiro reminded himself to be more careful. Interacting with people was difficult enough without having to abide by their silly rituals.

 

oooooooooOOOOOOOOOooooooooo

 

Many nights they talked from sundown to sunrise. Sometimes they would argue, usually a sudden twist in the conversation that outraged or angered the boy. It was not as easy to upset Toshiro enough for him to be shut out for long anymore, the clever child having grown less susceptible to his own pique and Ichigo's cruel teasing. The old weapons still worked, but the new ones were much more effective.

Ever since the killing of the fledgling bold enough to not flee, brave enough to be worth consuming, the perfume of his human's physical maturity grew, making him salivate. His Toshiro had discovered a hint of the pleasures of the flesh, giving in to the temptations with a strange combination of innocence and depravity that had shocked him, a creature of nearly pure instinct. How delicious, the lingering aroma of cum and satisfaction, the new glint of understanding in bright eyes responding to his seductions.

He did not rush it, savoring the long anticipation, the break in dull eternity. In the months since the first time the child responded like a young man, Ichigo had watched for opportunities. Gentle seductions, words tender and brutal, subtle turnings of his head, flexing of his legs, lowering of his eyes. A few times he even feigned sleep while the human was engrossed in yet another book, on his side in the damp grass or along the high branch, his head on one arm stretched for a long profile. The poor boy had nearly lost his mind on more than one such occasion, the rich scent of arousal rolling over him in waves as he felt the turquoise gaze stroking his body.

Despite his own desire, strong and always growing stronger, Ichigo was careful. Tease the boy too much, seduce him too boldly, and Toshiro would become accustomed to the thoughts that now caused smooth cheeks to blush. No, Ichigo would not dull the weapon of lust that would serve him well. Thus, he was subtle, easy, keeping the tension alive, and someday he could truly unsettle his prey with the full truth.

It was a fortunate accident that he had discovered his other entertainment at the same time as his Toshiro. The few times his frustration made him want to tear the foul city down to take his prize, the fledgling seemed to know, answering some subconscious call, perhaps, seeking him out. Grimmjow alone would have been an effective distraction from boredom, a worthy way to spend his time and energy. The two of them, his human and his fledgling, made this the most interesting and exciting phase of his long existence that he could recall, and at times he wondered how he had ever survived the long monotony before finding the two.

And the human had grown impossibly more appealing. Those first hints of maturity grew stronger as sneaky time passed, the body taller, bones thicker though still delicate compared to many humans he observed. He observed the changes with fascination, never before having been interested enough in human young to pay attention to the process. His Toshiro was still beautiful, more beautiful, mind still full of stars, and he asked himself every time they were together if the boy was yet a man.

“Will you please _hold still!”_

He grinned at the exasperated tone, the scowl, but he stretched anyway. True, he could stay in the requested pose for hours, days, weeks, but why do that when he could enjoy the vexation in that cute face?

“You expect too much, my sweet.”

“Right, like you don't lounge there for hours while you're yapping.”

“Yapping? You certainly don't complain about my yapping. No, just keep asking question after question. If anyone is yapping around here . . . did you just throw a pencil at me? Forgive me for not being sure, since it didn't come anywhere near me.”

“Just lay back down, damned demon.”

He snickered, only for a second wondering how he found such simple banter quite . . . comforting. He hadn't lied when he told his pretty human that he was changing. Sometimes, the changes were major, such as his shifting desire away from wanting to devour the boy’s soul to wanting to devour him in a very different way. Sometimes, the changes were subtle, the light laughter, the way he had stopped worrying about how his time with this mortal was less a diversion and more a purpose.

Warm blush, deeper scowl as he sprawled back down on the branch, letting one leg dangle and tossing one arm over his head like a storied damsel. Bits of snow fell silently from the rustled branches, though he felt no cold, only the heat of having those gemstone eyes petting up and down his body for hours.

“Ah, how long I've been waiting for you to command me to _lay down for you_ , sweetheart.”

The boy nearly choked in a combination of outrage, lust, and embarrassment that he failed miserably to hide. Ichigo hummed, such a deliciously strange mix of flavors, particularly when added to the pleasure radiating from the rapidly beating heart. His Toshiro so enjoyed his company, and this had stopped causing him confusion, instead bringing wonder and a new kind of happiness. Yes, he was happy, in a quiet way, like he used to find when discovering a new place of beauty or a new soul of power.

“Will you stop? The night's almost over.”

“Perhaps you should stop _yapping_ and concentrate. Not my fault you're slow.”

“I'm almost finished, if you would simply have some manners.”

“I am a Vasto Lorde, a being of pure evil according to your oh-so-learned scholars in your oh-so-precious books. Why would pure evil have manners?”

Another flare of anger, a flash of turquoise, and the smooth voice snapped even more harshly.

“Can't you just cooperate? You should be nice to me on my . . .”

And all the other emotions were lost in the sour taste of old sorrow and the bitterness of regret. It crossed his mind again, how odd that the same emotions would have tasted rich and decadent when he first spoke with his Toshiro now made him recoil. In fact, he remembered the banquet of sweet pain, dark despair, remembered them fondly even though such would be tantamount to poison now.

Oh, it would still drive him mad with hunger from any other human, he had hunted in other worlds just to reassure himself that the changes in him only applied to this one remarkable soul. He had sought out a decently bright soul, and had no trouble breaking the woman’s will, then relishing her screams as he indulged in a slow, painful killing, tasting all she had to offer before ripping her soul out of her while still conscious just as he used to dream of doing to Toshiro. Not satisfied, he had done something quite rare, luring a child around Toshiro’s size to him. The soul was not strong, the child a product of suffering without his Toshiro’s fierce will, and he coaxed the soul to him with mercy.

He was still a vicious killer, a hunter of humans. He was only changed by this one, and he had proven it and accepted it. Eventually, the game would end or he would discover some reason for this strange relationship, this change as all before it passing into the endless stream of eternity.

“Yes, my sweet,” he coaxed as he obediently leaned onto his side, head propped on one arm, in the pose requested. “I should be nice, why exactly?”

“Never mind.”

The new pencil was dropped. Toshiro's emotions settled into stale sadness and resignation.

“I answer as many of your questions as I can, as honestly as I know how. I have told you more about myself and my kind than I have told any being, and I know, sweet Toshiro, that you chronicle it all with the intention of sharing these secrets with those who live to hunt me down.”

That startled the boy out of melancholy, and he saw the soft, pink lips part to offer some defense that would not be honest.

“Now, sweetheart, that was no accusation. The knowledge is yours to do with as you please, and if it leads to a greater challenge for me and my kind, that may not be unwelcome. For all I give you, Toshiro, will you not share this with me?”

So fast, human emotions. A different kind of sadness tempted his tongue, one of loneliness, not entirely unpalatable tinged as it was with longing. And yet, the boy turned his eyes away, studying the detailed sketch with a sigh.

“Really, it's nothing profound, silly in fact.”

“Hmm.” He waited, letting himself ignore the heartache and focus instead on the awkward discomfort and ever-present desire that was still immensely appealing.

“Demons aren't born, so they don't have birthdays, right?”

“Birthdays? Let's see . . . numbering the years, often receiving or giving gifts, celebrations with family . . . no, demons do not have birthdays. Am I to understand there is reason to celebrate, little beauty?”

“Hardly. I don't know why I bother to think of it.”

“Is that so? Well, given there has been a demon outside your window for . . .”

“Years.” A quiet chuckle, the boy always amused by his failure to grasp time. “Almost three years, Ichigo.”

“Three years surviving my affection, then. I'd say that's cause for celebration. What is the proper question - how old are you? How old, such a strange phrase when almost all humans are infants.”

“Well, you can't answer that question, oh wise elder. _'Very old indeed'_ does not count.” Slightly annoyed again, and the veil of sorrow lightening. “And I am sixteen years old today.”

“I have the perfect gift for you, my sweet,” he smiled as he sat up, legs dangling over the edge of the branch, stretching out his arm with his palm open, “but it is elsewhere. Come to me, and I will take you to see it.”

“Yes, demon,” the boy flashed a smirk at him. “Sixteen is quite old enough, I might as well die now.”

It was not really a temptation, more of an ongoing tease between them. Ichigo had held the secret for some time now, how long, he wasn’t sure. He could hold it a little longer. The dragon wasn’t likely to go anywhere, and he could find it again even if it returned to the mountains. Someday, if his Toshiro was still as captivating, he take his human to see the dragon, and Ichigo would get to see true joy again.

“Sixteen years. And does that mean anything to humans?”

“Mean anything? No, I suppose it doesn’t.”

“So, nothing changes?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, is there anything about being sixteen years old that is different from being fifteen, or seventeen, or any other number, for that matter? Or is it just that you must, once again, find a way to chain and measure time to tame it for your peace of mind?”

“Huh. I see why you have trouble answering some of my questions. No, there isn’t anything significant. All but the wealthy learn a trade early and are already working by fourteen. Most are married or betrothed around fifteen or sixteen, maybe later if the girl is younger. Some my age already have children, move out of their parent’s homes to establish their own family.”

“Marriage.” Ichigo understood the word, and betrothal, and all it entailed. He tried to picture his Toshiro bedding a girl, a woman, giving her his seed, seeing her delivered of his child. The shrewd gaze caught his, and he realized he was growling.

“And you, my sweet? Where is your lady love?”

He did not expect such anger, to the point of rage, and he knew the human who seemed too small, too innocent and yet too wise for _marriage_ would be growling as loudly as he had if it were a human instinct.

“I will not be marrying. Not in this city, at any rate.”

“And why is that? You have a home to provide, a large one by comparison. Does that not mean you have some wealth, as well? And you are intelligent, not to mention beautiful. I should think any girl would kill her rivals for the chance to have you between her thighs, buried inside her. Or are you a poor lover? Surely all those books could help you learn to please a woman. I could provide instruction in this, sweetheart, it would be my pleasure to teach . . .”

“Shut up!” He grinned at the red cheeks, drew a deep breath of cold air redolent with hot arousal. “It isn’t anything like that, which I’m betting you know perfectly well and are just tormenting me for fun.”

“Mmm. Or perhaps I just wished to distract you, to turn your thoughts away from hatred. No. I surely couldn’t have any such benevolent motivations. Pure evil.”

Wood creaked as Toshiro stood, lovely face marred by another scowl but eyes so wide and glistening as the boy took the two steps forward to the window. He stared at pale hands that pressed into the dark wood as Toshiro leaned toward him, not as pale as before with a golden hue from time in the sun, not as small as before with wider palms and longer fingers, not as soft as before with marks of labor in thick patches of skin and savory scented cuts.

“Ichigo. Surely you know that I do not think that of you. It may make me the most foolish human in existence, but I don’t see you that way. Oh, you are the most wicked thing, and I am surrounded by humans so that is saying something. But pure evil you are not. Were you evil, you would have done as you described, driven me insane or tricked me and then torn me apart. Were you evil, you would have let that other one do it and laughed as I died or killed us both once I had broken. And were you evil, you would not know how to provide solace.”

Listening intently to this little speech, letting the hunger build and run rampant through his veins, he slowly cocked his head to the side only to provoke the same hunger in the serious youth. Sixteen. Old enough? His human would be a man now, strange as that seemed, by human standards. His human may have little, teal-eyed offspring to scream and wet themselves in their helplessness. Old enough? He licked his lips slowly, watching the boy – the man? – watch his tongue.

“Solace? Only truth, my sweet. They are the foolish ones. Do not waste any concern for the opinions of these humans.”

The white hair shook side to side, a small smile blossoming in the brightening light. He cursed the dawn, as he did often now, feeling the pull to go, to return to the gate, resisting just a little longer. He could stay, after all. He was strong enough to stay until the gate opened again, be it a night or several. Instinct was instinct, and he cursed that, as well.

“It doesn’t work that way for humans, Ichigo.”

He wanted to ask what that meant. He wanted to erase any need his human had for any other creature but him. He wanted to be the center of his Toshiro’s existence. And he did not want to leave.

“Happy Birthday, my Toshiro.”

He took with him the genuine smile and the warmth of some emotion he felt from the boy, the young man, increasingly. Gratitude, of all things, blended seductively with desire, a hint of awe, a dash of humor. It was a truly delicious flavor.

 

oooooooooOOOOOOOOOooooooooo

 

Their routine was, he thought, set in stone. So, only a cursory knock and he balanced a large soup bowl against his hip as pushed the door open, luckily recovering just in time to keep from spilling the stew that had simmered all day. The tall, thin man and his short, fat wife both looked at him, smiles dropping, the man’s lip curling in disgust as his wife made a sign against evil with her hand.

The woman he called grandmother must have seen it, pretending she didn’t as she stood from the big chair Toshiro had restuffed, adding length to the wooden legs to make it comfortable for her aching joints to sit and stand.

“Toshiro! My, is it that late already? I have an excuse for being hungry then. You remember the Takadas from two doors down? Oh, would you like to join us for dinner? Toshiro is a wonderful cook, and if I’m not mistaken, that’s venison stew I smell, what a treat!”

Toshiro shuddered, and was not at all surprised to see the dour woman do the same out of the corner of his eye while her husband snorted like a bull ready to charge. He had moved instinctively away, frozen near the high counter separating living room from kitchen, as far away as he could get without darting out the door as he wanted to. He kept his eyes down, staring at the old lady’s slippers to keep all three people in view without provoking anyone. The bowl was held in front of him, an inadequate shield.

“My dear, you should come dine with us this evening.”

He suspected the woman wished to say much worse. The man had no such restraint.

“It can’t be healthy to have _that thing_ in your house.”

Teeth ground together as he held back a retort, knowing from experience just how that would end. Fortunately, he had years of practice keeping reactions to himself. It made him jump, however, when the usually cheerful voice snapped angrily.

“Mr. Takada! A grown man raising children and grandchildren of his own should know better than to insult a guest under my roof.”

Chancing a quick glance, he was somewhat placated by the redness in the cadaverous cheeks.

“Forgive my husband, my dear, he meant you no offense.” No mention of who was actually offended, of course. “We just worry about your safety. We’ll see you tomorrow as usual!”

Such a bubbly tone to seep such poison. He moved quickly, skirting the counter and into the kitchen to have the counter between him and the couple who dropped any semblance of civility the second they turned for the door, shooting hatred at the worthless bastard that should have been exiled or tossed in the river long ago. He hated that he held his breath until the door closed.

“Toshiro, my boy. They don’t mean ill . . .”

“They do.” His firm words stopped her for a moment, and he shuffled to put the heavy tureen on the small kitchen table, turning his back to her. “They do mean me ill, grandmother. But it’s nothing new. Please, think no more of it.”

She was silent as he got bowls and spoons, moving listlessly. His appetite was gone, and he wanted nothing more than to leave, forcing himself through the motions for her sake. She would drop it. He was surprised, pleasantly so, that she had defended him at all, or at least defended her own rights and him by default. But he hardly expected any kind of apology or further discussion.

His mind went back to Ichigo’s words, the demon telling him to not give any weight to human opinion. It was not that easy. As he sat listening to the old lady chatter away as if nothing at all was wrong, his fingers found the thick velvet he had wrapped around and around the wonder he had brought to show her.

Four nights after his birthday, the demon had returned. As usual, one intense night was followed by easy conversation and sharing of the demon's knowledge, a calming routine they had fallen into. Without any comment made, just a look and a deliberate gesture of perfect, strong, bronzed fingers, Ichigo had placed the object on the flat part of the branch and left it to catch the dawn light, a tiny fire of orange the color of the demon’s hair. He had skipped the ordeal of passing the gate guards, finding the demon’s walnut tree quite close enough and quite strong enough for him to jump to from the city wall. From there, only a couple of steps and he felt the slight tingle of the barrier. So close, so very close the demon was night after night.

It was a small miracle, a glass dragon with wings furled back and fangs bared. He had read of glass-blowing, seen illustrations, but the jeweler’s glass and the small spyglass he had seen the guard captain use were the closest he had come to such fine work. He wondered if the demon knew how valuable the gift was, and his first thought was to show it to the only human that meant something to him. He would tell her he had found it at a merchant’s stall, and she would marvel with him at the slick curves and tiny etched details that brought the inanimate object close to life, a tiny copy of his dragon in his hand.

“You aren’t eating well, my boy. How do you ever expect to grow?”

One last caress of velvet, and he left the figurine safe in his deep pocket. She had despised the dragon, anyway, just like the rest of them. He pasted a small smile on his face.

“I’m sixteen, grandmother. I’m afraid this is the best we can expect.”

Short. He was used to it, at least a head shorter than any other boys his age. Thin, too, by nature. Ichigo didn’t seem to care.

“Nonsense, boy. You need more meat in your diet. More of this venison.”

She continued, he patiently swallowed a few more bites of the stew he had been looking forward to all day, a favorite that he could barely bring himself to eat, and waited for the sunset to give him reason to leave.

 

ooooooooooOOOOOOOOOOoooooooooo

 

It was done. Just in time to be a return for the unexpected gift, and he was practically giddy as he polished the finished product. The blacksmith had been curious but hadn’t stopped him or begrudged him the use of the small, hot oven they used for precision pieces. The pendant could have been made at the jeweler’s, but he had his reasons for making the chain at the jeweler's and the pendant at the blacksmith's.

Also, it had taken three tries, which would have embarrassed him and exasperated the jeweler. The blacksmith didn’t care how much of his free time he spent at the forge, as long as Toshiro kept out of the way when there was real work being done. And the man was curious, leaning over his shoulder familiarly with a quiet whistle.

“That’s beautiful work, Toshiro.”

He moved the polishing rag so the man could see the entire pendant, smiling in pride. The centerpiece was a black sword, ever so slightly curved and elegant, hilt decorated with tiny ruby chips held in a swirling cage of silver. It was just over four inches from the bale to the tip of the sword, too masculine a symbol for most women, too flashy for most men, the overall shape of a narrowing triangle that Toshiro thought would look simply divine laying against Ichigo’s breastbone.

“Thank you for allowing me to work on it here.”

The man grunted acknowledgment, never one that needed thanks. That was one reason Toshiro didn’t create this at the jeweler’s shop. The blacksmith didn’t and likely would never ask what Toshiro planned to do with the pendant; a man’s business was his own.

“What is that black? Not metal?”

“A stone called onyx.”

He had tried obsidian first but found it too hard to shape delicately without fracturing, not having the right tools to work the crystal or the expertise to handle it. Stone was much more forgiving, he had learned, though he still managed to ruin the second attempt, cracking the stone. Working whenever he could spare at least an hour at a time, this project had taken eight months, far longer than expected.

“You know, you could make a living with things like that in a bigger town.”

“At a year per piece, I’d surely starve.”

The smith chuckled and sent him sprawling forward into the drafting table with what was probably supposed to be a friendly pat. Toshiro didn’t complain, moved by the friendly gesture.

He rushed home after cleaning up his mess, eager to string the pendant on the silver chain he’d finished weeks ago and get it across the barrier by dusk. Exchanging pretty gifts and pretty words did not make him any less wary of the demon . . . he hoped. He certainly wasn’t going to do anything as stupid as get close to the barrier just to deliver the necklace.

There was still a half-hour or so to spare as he admired his handiwork, the chain, in his opinion, perfect with the beveled links matching the shine of the of the silverwork around the hilt and top of the sword. The swirls were one piece, thickening and thinning as it twisted like a snarl of vines. He had originally thought of clouds, broader curves, but it hadn’t looked right at all on attempt number two. This one was right, almost like a patch of briers trapping the sword, or like a storm of dark and bright energy.

A strange impulse had him running the edge and tip of the onyx sword, purposefully given a hint of sharpness, against his thumb. So many things the demon said haunted his dreams, some sinister, some suspiciously tender. The words that made him tremble were in that other voice, possibly a truer voice than the dulcet tones, the voice that echoed in both nightmares and fantasies, _‘Toshiro, Toshiro, my Toshiro, your blood smells like salvation, sweet Toshiro.’_

Shivering as that strange combination of heat and freezing cold skittered down his spine, a reaction nothing but thoughts of his demon could create, he watched himself trail the black stone down his thumb to the soft part of his palm. Yes, it was the right thing to do. A sword should be blooded, after all, and a gift should be something the recipient craves. A line of red welled up, trailing in two rivulets down his skin and down the tiny sword. What did his demon crave more than this?

 


	10. Chapter 10

The last time he had watched so keenly for the demon's reaction to a surprise, it hadn't ended well. He remembered every moment of that night, the longest night of his life since the night he had found himself completely alone in this world, a lost and frightened child longing for nothing more than an end to everything. Then, he had observed in anxious curiosity as the demon showed himself more clearly than ever before, stalking, sniffing, growling, and that voice ripping apart the air. Now, he waited in nervous excitement as the lean figure came closer, closer.

He couldn't help but glance repeatedly to the tree, leaning slightly out the window. The glint of silver reassured him, hanging from a thinner, higher bough and as close to the window as possible in hopes that he would be able to see Ichigo's face when he found it. Silly, he'd just put it there twenty minutes ago, heart tripping with the risk of being outside the barrier so close to sundown, it wouldn't have vanished.

Ichigo had stopped a few paces shy of the place he usually stood, head canted far back and sniffing the air, exposing the defined cut of his jaw and the soft skin underneath. Then, the demon looked at him, an almost feral grin stretching wide to show not the normally dazzling smile, but the narrow, sharp teeth that he'd watched tear apart the steaming heart of one of Ichigo's own kind. It should have been terrifying. He should have been able to hold back his own smile, which he was certain was not intimidating in the least.

Toshiro shook his head, exasperated with himself. It was dangerous fantasy, easy to indulge in when a barrier always separated them, easy to pretend that the savage killer could be something more, just for him.

Too fast to even be seen, the demon vanished. Bare branches clacked together, the winter-cold limb creaking mournfully under slick black boots.

“Oh, my sweet Toshiro,” he barely heard the breathless voice over the sudden pounding of his heart.

Unable even to blink, he watched Ichigo slowly reach with both hands, long fingers and large palms forming a cradle around the pendant hanging level with golden eyes, not touching. The demon leaned in, pendant trapped between hands and face, nostrils flaring and eyes closing, full lips parting to breathe in, tasting the air.

A subliminal sound, lower than a hum, softer than a growl vibrated in his ear. Toshiro tried to swallow, suddenly dry and feeling all the blood leave his face, rushing south. It should be terrifying, the look of hunger and bliss as the demon sucked in the scent of his blood. It should be terrifying, and it was, but that thrill of fear was as familiar now as the thrill of pleasure to be thought of at all by a being so magnificent.

The ice-cold touch of the silver woke Ichigo slightly from the trance he had willingly fallen into. He was still stunned, not by the necklace and pendant, fine as they were Ichigo had lived countless years in countless worlds and material possessions had never had much value. It was the essence of his remarkable human permeating the gift that took his breath, every link, every twist of pretty silver soaked with the uniquely appealing aura of Toshiro. And then the centerpiece, the black stone obviously a tribute to the blade at his hip, emanating the most delicious scent, the tiny amount of blood so much more potent without interference from the damned shield that kept them apart.

“You made this yourself.” It wasn't a question, though he heard the quiet agreement. “It is exquisite.”

No human had ever given him a gift. Bribes to keep their lives, yes, offerings to deflect the anger of his kind or win favor, but never anything like this, willingly given, customized and created to appeal to him not for mercy but simply for mutual pleasure. Plucking the thick chain from the thin branch, he held it high as he turned to see the young man watching him with that delightful rosy shade, cheeks flushed with warm blood so close to the soft skin, surely it would be soft. He inhaled deeply again, twisted silver bumping teasingly against his lip, tempting him to lick at the black stone. No, he would wait to taste the fresh nectar from the source, save this gift as a reminder and a consolation.

He would wait, certain it would not be much longer. The heat in dilated turquoise eyes when he fastened the chain around his neck told him he would not have to wait much longer.

 

oooooooOOOOOooooooo

 

As far as he could tell, the desert of Hueco Mundo was infinite. Grimmjow hadn't even been capable of contemplating such things until recently, at least recently on the grand timeline. It was something he simply knew – instinct the easy explanation for just about everything he knew. Until recently, when he could stop and think and compare what he knew to what he observed beyond the gates.

The pack had been chased off again. Bossing them around was entertaining for a while, having the firepower behind him to get into some really epic fights was fun, but it never took long for him to get annoyed. Their kind tended to clump together for protection only until powerful enough to gain a name. He knew why. Three of his pack now had names, and with those names came stronger opinions, stronger wills, a need to push their own dominance. Only Grimmjow's will and far greater power kept them from preying on one another when tensions rose.

It was good to be alone, good to not have to pace himself as he raced across infinite strands and hills under the cold stars. It was good to not have the chatter interrupting his thoughts as he wondered if infinite was possible. Everything had limits. He knew his territory and a wide surrounding area, knew the landmarks and scents, knew how to read the shifting of the dunes. Beyond that huge area stretched infinity, other's territories which he dipped in and out of just as they trespassed onto his sands. How far could it possibly go? Did it loop back around on itself, a round world like so many others? If he ran in a straight line, would he find himself back in this very place?

Strange ideas jolted to a halt as he sank his claws into the lee of a dune, sinking into a crouch for a low profile, head up to catch the unknown scent. Not a cold trail, not a hot one, past by a couple hours ago. There were two. His tail lashed the sands. Two, and both of them strong, at least as strong as his pack, maybe fledglings . . . or worse.

A low growl had built in his throat, and he silenced it as soon as he realized. They weren't close, but if they were as strong as the traces of their aura's implied, then they could be fast, could be watching for the owner of the territory they'd invaded, could even be hunting him. And they were awfully close to one of his stashes. He did not have a lot of wealth, but it took a great deal of time and effort to gather the energy to make spirit coin. And there was the principle of the thing, invaders and looters didn't deserve a single coin. At least they were nowhere near the hiding place that contained the two bright souls he had earned and still hoarded.

Following their trail was easy; they weren't trying to hide, and that fact made him more nervous along with the gradually strengthening scent. One of them was truly powerful. He should stop, go back and bring the five idiots along. With them at his back, he could handle a pair of fledglings. And if not, there would be five bodies easier to catch than him.

Or, he could call Ichigo. He sucked in air through his bared fangs, chastising himself. Nice as it was to have a Vasto Lorde at his beck and call, he was no weakling. Using his pack was different, he was their king and it was their privilege to fight or die for him. He'd be damned if he let himself fall into the same role, the pet and cannon fodder for a Lorde. So, pride pricked by his own self-criticism, he sped up, darting from rock to dune to whatever scarce cover he could find.

They were definitely heading straight for the tiny cave, entrance obscured by a stand of dead, crystalline trees. Many feet under the surface, hard to detect from above, was the shield he had set to protect one cache of coins charged full of souls, the only type of currency accepted between his kind. There was also a few random bits of junk, pretty diamonds and strange, glittering sharp knives, oddities that had caught his eye would not be missed, but the coin, though only a fraction of what he had, would be a loss and an offense.

He was angry, that's what he'd blame it on, the colossal stupidity of distraction. He was angry, and he hadn't noticed that one had doubled back. The Hollow couldn't be that sneaky, that quiet and skilled at masking its presence. He would have realized that only one was still ahead of him had he not been fuming and sulking. At least he was not so incompetent as to fall into the trap completely, his reflexes saving his skin from the blade that bit deep into the sand where he had been.

“Oh, you're a quick one, aren't you?”

He was unimpressive, not tiny or terribly thin, but a lightweight and a bit pretty. He didn't look capable of swinging that sword casually with one hand to point at him where he crouched now atop a boulder. Looks meant nothing; the form of a rather posh young man deceptive to any that could be fooled into thinking him weak or young. A quick taste of his aura and Grimmjow was alert. Fledgling, fully evolved. He was almost certain he was stronger. Almost.

“The fuck are you, blondie?”

His growled question got only a faint sigh and another attack. Now that he'd focused on his attacker, it was simple to step out of the way, and he didn't even draw his sword, dodging an unusually fast cero blast from the one eye, the other hidden behind a black patch. Speed was often achieved by sacrificing power. Still, he wasn't about to walk into a cero if he didn't have to.

“My territory, bitch. I might have let you run.”

The fledgling barely managed to evade the swipe of his claws with a curse. The other fledgling must have known Grimmjow outclassed him in terms of speed, he thought, and the stranger kept trying to attack, kept staying just out of reach.

He should have known. Grimm wasn't stupid. When it came to fighting, he was goddamn gifted if he did say so himself. But he was also a hothead, prone to fight first and ask questions never. When it came to the beautiful adrenaline of blood and insults and victory or death, Grimm knew very well he tended to lose any sense of self-preservation. He should have remembered that there were two, and one was a whole fucking lot stronger than the other.

 

oooooooOOOOOooooooo

 

Lately, Toshiro had recognized yet another unwelcome development – envy. He'd always felt inadequate, jealous of others. Even as he despised them for their stupidity, he despised himself for his own need to fit in. It was a very old, familiar problem that he had been able to manage quite well if not completely. Then came the hell known as puberty, followed quickly by watching all the young men and women in the town paired off, married, pregnant, living the typical lives expected. He didn’t envy their lives, didn’t desire it for himself, but he couldn’t help the wish that he did desire it, that he could be normal and happy to have such a simple and trite life and have someone simple and trite to share it with.

In the afternoon, he had watched yet another young couple walk into the jeweler's shop hand-in-hand. The boy was one of the few who had not ever hurt him or laughed at him. His new wife was one of the girls who had stood back and giggled when others taunted him. Tempted to sneer, he turned away instead, letting the silversmith handle the customers while his attention swung back to the plain copper bracelet that he was dressing up with some cheap stones, perfect for a low-budget gift with some glitter.

It was ridiculous, and he blamed hormones. Why would he want to give up knowledge, self-awareness, and the excitement these things brought into his life? For what, a girl to cast an insipid smile at him as she tried to talk him into spending money on trinkets that added very little value to life and then barely mask her disappointment and anger when he suggested something more reasonable? To be tied to working some menial job day in and day out to provide for a wife and children?

To be accepted by prejudiced morons, to be included in a community he had good reason to hate . . . that’s what it was. What a horrid thing to want. It took only a moment to talk himself out of these flashes of envy.

There was another problem. It was different, the way he'd started looking in the cloudy, slightly distorted mirror that had been his mother's, critical gaze narrowing in disappointment at his lack of height, slightness despite various exercise, and he realized that he would not see the young man in the mirror and think _'attractive, desirable_.' No, he would see this person and think they were odd, eye-catching perhaps, but not in a good way, not anything close to the standard of human beauty. Not like Ichigo.

At times, he lost focus entirely. The demon would answer a question, and knowing how Toshiro soaked up any knowledge, he would add detail and stories. It was rarely a simple yes or no, and Toshiro thoroughly loved listening even if, in the end, he couldn’t remember the original question.

Lately, though, the music of the demon’s voice lulled him as he simply stared, memorizing again and again the angles of jaw and cheekbones, the long lines of defined torso and legs that went on for ages, the way the swirls of silver filled the notch of the demon's throat, the black sword accenting the solid breastbone. The demon had changed the cut of the strange, ever-shifting clothing, leaving a wide V to show off Toshiro's gift, and it was very hard to take his eyes off it. This was the standard of beauty he didn’t think any human could meet, let alone the short, bony freak in the mirror with wild hair and eyes too big for his face.

“Shh, little beauty.”

Shivering at the intimate whisper he could feel against his ear, his eyes met gleaming gold. The demon who had been sitting cross-legged in the grass and describing in great detail the way humans in Toshiro's world used to war against one another for no sound reason before the demons came and unified the prey in fear was now standing, posture relaxed but leaning slightly forward, intensely studying him.

“What . . .”

What was that? The knowing look in black and gold eyes, the words that were almost a direct reassurance to his critical thoughts. He stopped the question, let the suspicion rest for a moment, mind racing with thoughts and implications. If he gave voice to his speculation it would lead to a fight, at least another misunderstanding. Over time, it seemed he’d simply accepted the demon’s knack for reading his mind, brushing it off as a trick of intelligence and experience. He needed to think more on it, sift through the little fragmented memories of times the demon had seemed too perceptive, almost empathic.

“Did you know that there are worlds with over a billion humans? And I have walked more worlds than I care to remember, for countless human lifetimes. How many of your kind do you think I have seen?”

“Yes, you’ve bragged before, demon. What does that have to do with . . .”

“There are a few I remember. There was a woman, a sorceress, quite mad and more lovely than the stars. Entire nations knelt at her feet, but all she truly wanted was a spectacular way to die. Her soul was soaked in the cloying scent of wildflowers and carrion, glorious and corrupt. And the old man, ancient and revered as wise. He looked right in my eyes and told me I was an illusion of his fading mind because it was a fact that souls and soul-eaters did not exist. He was so far convinced of his wisdom that he rejected the truth even as I relieved him of his burdens. Despite his arrogance, his soul was heavy, rich and earthy.

“Once, it was a warrior, young in appearance but older than he seemed. Oh, he fought me so viciously, yet it was fear of hurting his companions that brought him down, after they all died at our feet. Once he knew he was defeated, he kept me at bay with a spirit barrier. And he spoke to me. He wanted to learn everything about my kind, asking questions like you, until his strength faded, and then he opened his arms to me with the kindest smile. That one was surprising, in the end, more powerful than the sorceress, wiser than the sage. His soul burned as if I’d tried to swallow the sun.

“Not one of them knew my name. I did not ask their names, did not desire to know them, my Toshiro. Of all the billions, there has only been one that I found intriguing and beautiful enough to share my own name with, and I suspect there will only ever be one.”

A slight, almost wistful smile, head cocked charmingly to the left, and Toshiro could have happily jumped through the window right to his death, just for one chance to _touch_. Two seconds, a small gasp leaving his lips, and the insane impulse faded just enough for him to mentally smack himself. Gods, the demon would certainly win. It was only a matter of time before one slip like that proved to be his downfall.

“My sweet Toshiro, you look rather . . . hot. Whatever is the matter?”

So human, that taunting tone coupled with an innocent expression. Or was it? What did he really know about humans? Faded memories of his mother teasing him the way one does a child, his grandmother's blunt sarcasm, the rough humor around the forge, these were the examples he had. None quite fit Ichigo, with his lopsided smirks and the honesty behind every word whether it was said in anger or humor. Toshiro didn't know if the difference was because Ichigo was like a human, or because he most definitely was not.

He had to look down at his hands, clenched on the windowsill as if to keep him anchored. Did his hands clutch tight to keep him from jumping, or to help him vault out into the night? He had to look away from the unblinking gold and the lure in every shape and shade of the demon's form.

“Ichigo . . . I . . .”

What? What could he possibly say? Was it all lies, just another layer of seduction to get him to do exactly what he had been about to do, give himself willingly to the demon? If so, if all of it was an act from the anger when Ichigo thought others were trying to steal him, to the earnestness when Ichigo tried to convince him that a prince of demons would give up the prey of years out of some twisted affection . . . if this was all a farce, then Ichigo deserved the reward he had been working so hard for, because Toshiro was very nearly convinced.

Something, a change in the air, a tension, a rapid movement as the softly angled jaw snapped up and around, and he looked up. Ichigo was staring into the distance, away to the northwest, the direction of the gate. The demon's body was almost quivering, and Toshiro expected to blink and find nothing there, so obvious was the frozen momentum. He thought it must have taken effort, a great effort for Ichigo to glance back at him for one heartbeat, a long instant to look again into the eyes of a predator that defied such a narrow classification.

One second Toshiro's tongue was about to spill out the most embarrassing and compromising confessions, share the feelings behind the fantasies that chased him into bliss, give Ichigo what honest and probably very childish words of admiration he could manage.

And the next second, his demon was gone.

 

oooooooOOOOOooooooo

 

Grimmjow was angry. He'd always known he'd die pissed off; he'd just hoped it would be in a blaze of glory as he was mobbed by a thousand enemies rather than staring at the crescent moon as it grew blurry, the scent of his own blood clogging his nostrils. Certainly, he hadn't expected to be toyed with, the mouse to another's cat until he could no longer force himself to his feet to provide more entertainment for his killer.

No. He groaned with the effort to lift his head, his hand, his foot, anything. No, it couldn't end like this. Not after surviving three encounters with Lordes. Not after winning the favor of one even stronger than the monster grinning down at him. Not after gaining so much power. He couldn't lose it all now.

“You done? I was hoping you'd at least put up a fight. You smell a lot stronger than you are, you know? What is that, some kind of trick? Trying to make me think you were powerful, scare me off, maybe? Well, that didn't work out so well. Your scent's what brought me here. Nothing better than hunting another Vasto Lorde.”

Fuck, he hated this guy. Hated his flat teeth and his narrow eyes. Hated his stupid outfit that made him look like some bizarre, ugly flower, all stalk and weird spoon thing on top of his head, what even was that? Why did an asshat like that get to evolve, and Grimmjow got to get eaten? Probably not even by the weirdo. Probably he'd be given to the fledgling who had just stood and watched as he flung himself at the Lorde again and again without once drawing blood.

Pathetic.

“Can't even talk? No witty comeback for me to forget you by? Ah, well, life is fucking disappointing.”

The massive, odd weapon was raised over one lanky shoulder, and he waited for it to come down and finish him off. Too bad. His life wasn't disappointing at all. He had his pack to boss around, countless world's for entertainment, and . . . fuck, it must be his brain going haywire knowing he was about to die. No fuckin' way he'd actually miss Ichigo. Yeah, being around the Lorde was exciting, the most thrilling, terrifying thing he'd ever imagined. Yeah, the sex was great . . . no, he didn't mean that, it was awful, just awful being dominated like that, being driven insane with ecstasy until he didn't know his own name. Yeah, awful. He wouldn't miss that at all. Shit, he could practically feel that cocky son-of-a-bitch, practically taste the hot honey and smoke of Ichigo's power on his tongue.

It was a casual move, almost bored, the arm far too thin to be so strong lifting the huge crescents of metal and letting them drop. He must have been too far gone to feel it, all the wounds from being tossed around the desert adding up to too much pain to feel the final blow. He blinked, not sure he was seeing right or maybe he was already dead and imagining the creepy smile turning down.

The sound of metal grating on metal, that was familiar. The sound of a calm, arrogant voice, that was familiar. “ _Shhh, pretty kitty. I've got you._ ” He growled. Fucking bastard and his stupid fucking nicknames. Just angry cause he was called Ichigo. What kind of name was that for a creature that could tear apart an entire world if it wanted to? Ichigo. Stupid name. Stupid hair, just the right length to yank on without getting in in the way. Stupid smile, so human looking except when those needle teeth and that long, long, agile, long, hot, wonderful, long tongue came out.

Well, he was dead now, no need to worry about what stupid Ichigo would have to say about him walking right up to another Vasto Lorde and getting himself beaten to death in his own territory. He'd just close his eyes now. No need to stay awake for the getting-eaten part.

 

oooooooOOOOOooooooo

 

When the thought first occurred to him, it had brought a mixture of excitement and distaste bordering on panic. It seemed simple, something he should have thought of years ago. But Toshiro's long-standing conflict with the rest of society wasn't easily overcome. The defenses he had in place were, he knew, illusory. His home was his sanctuary, yet it was only wood and stone, nothing that could truly protect him from a human any more than it could protect him from a demon.

That point had been made clear again, just as it had the night Ichigo and he had fought until Ichigo left the city to an onslaught of demons. That night, he could have been killed, the fledgling demon could have easily driven him out into the night if Ichigo hadn't returned.

Three 'demon nights' come and gone, with no sign of Ichigo. It wasn't as bad. He was worried, yes, remembering that final look the demon had given him before vanishing and hoping it wasn't a look of farewell. But he wasn't lost in darkness, wasn't hurt and in despair, so the demons did not come in droves and, so far, no truly powerful ones had shown themselves. Three nights, when his demon had been with him every possible night for two years and ten months.

Among the thoughts and fears, the useless speculation on what had happened to draw Ichigo away, the gnawing restlessness that begged him not to think about his demon never returning, among all of it was a returning realization. His life was more than Ichigo. He had goals, and Ichigo was only a part of them, a source of knowledge, a secret advantage for as long as he could keep the demon entertained enough to not kill him. And it was high time he moved on with his plans for his future.

No one had been within those walls for years, only the old lady and himself. The idea of another human in his home was unsettling, to say the least. It seemed like the right gesture, however, one that might have changed things drastically had he offered years ago. The merchant wasn't a friend, at least Toshiro didn't think so. What did he know of friendship? They talked about common interests, had an easy if limited rapport until recently. It could all be based on money, as he'd always assumed, or on shared oddity.

The point, he thought as he ran through his arguments once more, was that he wouldn't know if he never tried. Urahara had never once said or implied with word of action any kind of hatred of him. The man was odd, with knowledge that set him apart from the townspeople. And then there was the cat. Certainly, the man might simply be mad, carrying on esoteric conversations with a feline. But Yoruichi's behavior and Ichigo's reactions set the cat even further away from normal than was the merchant.

If ever there was an ally worth winning, the bookseller was it. The man knew more of demons than he let on, knew something about magic, Toshiro was sure of that. And they had one solid foundation between them, their love of learning, specifically as manifested in the form of books.

So, he watched the market, waiting for the merchant to return. Then, he prepared and went to do what he, arguably, should have done long ago. His steps slowed, lingering at a nearby booth to buy honey as a treat and beeswax candles that he didn't really need while he waited for the dour lady buying some overpriced tincture. She cast a few glares over at him, but she never had the nerve to do more than hiss in his direction, and that only when her brainless oaf of a husband was with her. Hopefully, Urahara was selling her something useless. Better yet, poisonous.

“Ah, my favorite customer,” the teasing hadn't had the same ring to it ever since he had eavesdropped on the bizarre conversation between cat and lunatic. “What can I do for you, today?”

He bought some time by scanning the short row of spines, not expecting to find any interesting titles but needing another few seconds to calm his nerves. Trying to sound casual, he kept his eyes on the books.

“I wanted to invite you to dinner. At my house. Yoruichi is welcome, of course.”

His eyes flicked up when there was nothing but silence, finding no clues in the shadowed gray eyes and the fluttering paper fan concealing any expression.

“It's only, I have some books I thought you might be interested in. You don't have to stay, of course, for the meal.” He was babbling, unable to shut himself up, gesturing pointlessly at the basket brimming over with produce. He was mortified that his voice faltered, trailing off hopelessly. “I indulged in trout, thought Yoruichi might like it.”

Bad idea, he'd known it, staring again at the row of books with his stomach clenching in a combination of embarrassment and unexpected bitterness, preparing himself for the rejection, the outright disgust he would see on the merchant's face. He only hoped the man wouldn't laugh; that always seemed worse.

“I'm quite sure she will, my friend.” His eyes shot up, catching the flash of white teeth smiling. “If the little troublemaker shows up in time.”

“Right,” his head jerked in a sharp nod, mind whirring in surprise. “Good. I'll see you after the market closes, then. Oh, I should come get you, yes?”

“No need. The last street north, with the two walnut trees. I can close up shop a bit early so we have time before sundown, alright?”

Sundown, right, normal people cared about that despite being tucked safe behind a barrier. He didn't think Urahara was anything like normal, and truly doubted the man was afraid of nightfall. Likely, the merchant needed to keep up appearances, just as much as Toshiro did.

“Yes, good, I'll see you then.”

It was an ungraceful departure, not knowing what else to say, especially faced with another seemingly genuine smile. It was only when he had almost made it home, turning the corner and catching sight of his house and the tall canopy of green behind it that he could think straight again.

Trees. The two walnut trees. Ichigo had told him that another barrier surrounded the massive tree outside the wall where the demon loved to sit. Yoruichi had certainly seen it. And Urahara had said trees.

 

oooooooOOOOOooooooo

 

“You think this is a good idea, Kisuke?”

“Hmm?” He watched the retreating mop of white hair, cocking his head at the judgmental tone. “You're the one who took an interest, my dear. Not to mention the way you've been hounding me about helping the kid.”

A black shadow slunk out from between loosely stacked crates where she'd no doubt listened in on the rather adorably shy invitation. The cat snorted, golden eyes meeting his briefly before they both looked again at the boy before he vanished around a corner.

“And you said no good would come of it.”

Sigh. “I still say that. But when have I ever done anything good?”

“It is a Vasto Lorde. An old one.”

“The boy is still alive. The barrier came up, what, three years ago? And that kid is still alive. An interesting Hollow, wouldn't you say?”

“No more interesting than him.”

“Careful, love. You'll make me jealous.”

Another snort. Yoruichi was right, though. Kisuke had seen wonders that would make most men fall to their knees, lived a long life that had been so crammed with the unbelievable that he'd fled into obscurity just for the novel experience of being bored for once. And the small boy was _interesting_.

“Will you teach him?”

“I already told you, I'm done. Besides, I'm not sure I'm qualified to teach that boy.”

“Umm-hmm.”

Smug damned cat.

 

oooooooOOOOOooooooo

 

When he stopped to think about it, the boring life Toshiro had always wanted to escape didn't exist. The town was dull, but he had manged to find enough small bits of interest to cobble together a daily existence that had become far from unbearable. And the nights, no one could call dragons and demons boring. It was strange, then, the nervous anticipation he felt as he answered the door. It was strange to smile sheepishly at the odd merchant and the black cat draped over shoulders, making the sandy hair stick up at odd angles.

Yet, this was the first time that anyone other than the old lady had entered his house. He couldn't even remember visitors when his mother was alive; she was as rigidly shunned as he was, if not more. The man stepped in with casual curiosity, not seeming to fake politeness, though what would Toshiro know about how polite people acted when visiting . . . friends?

He was unpleasant, he was sure, stumbling over words and actions, hurrying the man to the table and racing into the kitchen. The only thing he could think of was to feed them both – he invited them for dinner, they came, he would provide dinner, they would eat. Success.

As baffling as social norms were to him, he did finally find himself relaxing as Urahara asked simple, easy questions and complimented the food and his home. They spoke of his granny, the old lady hadn't been visiting the market with him as frequently, and neither, for that matter, had Urahara. And talk turned to books, exhausting the short list of known commonalities between them. Fortunately, literature was a vastly broad topic leading in hundreds of directions, including the direction Toshiro wished the conversation to eventually go.

Yoruichi, meanwhile, had stared while the meal was finished and presented, made short work of the barely seared fish and dish of cream, and wandered off to explore every private nook and cranny with the entitlement only a feline can flaunt in another's personal space.

“So,” he looked back at the merchant as he refilled the kettle, stupidly proud of himself for making it this far without panicking and chasing the invader out of his home, “you mentioned some books? Should I be worried about my best customer finding another source?”

“I'm your only customer in this town.”

It surprised him, the easy chuckle he'd won several times over the course of the meal. Of course, he had some experience with Urahara, and the old lady, and, he supposed, the smiths and horsemen and merchants around town. Come to think of it, conversing was not at all unfamiliar anymore, and he couldn't quite remember why he'd been so anxious about it. He and Ichigo could talk nonstop dusk to dawn, could laugh and argue and share comfortable silences. Perhaps he wasn't as bad at being a normal person as he had thought.

“Well, I do a lively trade in herbal remedies, lest you forget. Never been one to buy those, though.”

“No,” he handed the man a fresh cup of tea bit didn't sit back down, “I make my own. You should know, you've sold me every book of medicine, herbs, and all that folklore hype that you use to sell bottles of swamp water.”

“You're a man of many talents, Toshiro. I've always told Yoruichi you'd go far.”

Exactly.

“Speaking of which, you recall the book you sold me for a king's ransom?”

“Ah, yes. A bargain at that price. That's not why you brought me here, is it? No refunds, my good sir.”

Too nervous to continue the banter, he practically blurted, “You've been there? Seireitei?”

Gray eyes studied him quietly while he held his breath, waiting, hoping for just one straight answer. Urahara was more than met the eye, he'd known that for ages. Getting the man to open up, well, maybe he could have tried harder. Offering the merchant money seemed logical, but he'd been turned down on the lucrative trade deal so simply paying for a safe escort to Seireitei wouldn't work. Time to offer a much more valuable commodity – knowledge.

“I have. I'm quite a bit more familiar with the place than I'd like to be.”

“I have a library upstairs. Will you come? There's a book I need you to see.”

 


	11. Chapter 11

The idea of an afterlife was, frankly, laughable. But he was quite familiar with the concept, having mocked, exploited, and tortured humans using their various concepts of what rewards and punishments may await their souls if they only abided by a set of rules designed to favor those in power. By the time they were within Grimmjow's reach, he knew exactly what fate awaited their souls, and not one of their philosophies came close to the anticlimactic truth of being simple food.

Maybe he was wrong. Something certainly wasn't normal about this. His last thought was shamed relief that the pain was over, that he'd not be conscious for the end of it all, wouldn't have to feel the ripping apart of his flesh and spirit. Coward.

Such a pretty sound, one he'd never heard though it tinged the edge of a memory. Bright and rich combined, like flutes of both wood and metal, prettier, though, than any human melody he'd heard, natural and ethereal united. Everything was warm, dark but not the kind of black that promises suffering and fear, no, the kind of easy velvet of sleep when he was awake but couldn't open his eyes. And the scent, oh, fuck, the scent! He knew that smell intimately, a combination of delicious and sweet and too spicy to bear, making his mouth water and stomach clench.

Wait, he couldn't be hungry if he was dead, right? Even if the crazy humans were right about rebirth or some shit, he wouldn't remember and be hungry, starving, always fucking starving. He'd already endured that life, an afterlife that was more of the same wouldn't be fair at all.

Figures. Fucking afterlife was just as stupid as the first time around.

 

oooooooOOOOOooooooo

 

That sound was still there, quieter though, intermittent trilling. That scent, close and seductive. That warmth, almost hot, pressing. It wasn't completely dark, nor as comfortable, and he groaned at the horrid combination of deep ache and sharp, bright pain that seemed everywhere. The light was dim, shapes gradually solidifying with each reluctant blink. Beneath him was soft. Above him was . . . heavy, awkward, but pushing against it didn't change anything so he simply laid there and let the world swirl into nauseous focus.

It clicked suddenly, with the scant light catching and reflecting predator's eyes under an absurd shade of orange. Not dead, then. The hallucinations were real - the freak's angry frown, the grinding of metal on metal, the soothing voice. He'd been spared. No, saved. Like a fucking distressed damsel. And his knight in fucking armor was curled around and over him, both of them reeking of dried blood. Oh, Ichigo's blood. That explained the scent that was driving him crazy.

“Get the fuck off me!” He meant to shout. It sounded a bit more like a dying crow, cracked voice cawing something unintelligible. Oh, fuck it all, anyway.

Ichigo chuckled, propping himself on an elbow to look down at the fledgling who managed to grumble and bitch even when half-conscious. Then he winced as he dragged his sharp nail up his forearm again. Instant response, the nose twitching, jaw working. He pressed his arm to the too-pale lips and settled back, leaning over the wreckage of what was once his strong, beautiful fledgling.

“That's it, kitty. Take all you need.”

This time, Grimmjow was actually swallowing. Blood wasn't the best way to manage a transfer of energy, but Grimm was too damaged to take anything more direct, and Ichigo wasn't in great shape himself. Soon, once the big cat was stable enough to not ruin his lair with a corpse, he'd fetch some souls, the simplest method of strengthening a Hollow.

Idly petting the bright blue hair, he watched exhaustion take over, tongue stilling against his skin, lips falling away from his arm that quickly healed. How strange life had become. It wasn't that he was surprised to find himself risking his own neck to protect this fledgling, nor was he shocked that he'd fought for his little human, though there had not been any risk involved when facing a creature weaker than Grimmjow.

No, the interesting thing about it all was that he had found things that moved him to such actions. He'd killed countless creatures of all kinds, had stood and watched in amusement or apathy as Hollows he had known and even considered comrades were brutally slain. Never had he lifted a hand to kill, defend, betray, or punish for any reason other than his own enjoyment.

It was not so different, he supposed. In the end, both of his new obsessions were for his own enjoyment. Never had he imagined he would be so engaged with another, so distracted from himself. Never had he imagined pitting himself against another Vasto Lorde without any assurance he would survive, motivated not by the thrill of it but by the intense rage and fear . . . fear again, fear of loss, fear when he raced across the dunes to find the broken body of his fledgling. Never had he felt so helpless in the face of mortality.

Never had he imagined how much he would enjoy it.

 

oooooooOOOOOooooooo

 

Needing to pause for a moment, he looked up and out the window. The boy's bedroom had a clear view of the rolling meadows stretching between the city wall and the wild forests, shutters thrown wide to welcome in the night as no other home would.

He didn't fail to notice how the wide turquoise eyes kept slipping to the window, becoming cloudy as they searched the distance. It was a demon night, after all, and it was obvious the boy's anxiety was not entirely caused by the near-stranger sitting nearby, reading a book that should not exist. Toshiro missed the demon, was hoping for it to come back, waiting as faithfully as a lover.

A streak of black, Yoruichi digging claws into the bark of the unnatural tree as she climbed to make her way back through the barrier and onto the windowsill.

“Happy hunting, my dear?”

A flick of ears and an obvious eye-roll. The boy sat still, silently watching, hands clutched white-knuckled on his knees. He hadn't seen more than a twitch from Toshiro in nearly an hour, hadn't heard anything but the occasional deep breath and the sigh of the pages. Now, the wary eyes watched Yoruichi, the boy's imperfect mask of calm indifference betraying both suspicion and curiosity.

What their kind host did not know, and likely would never suspect, was the nature of the black cat's hunt. At least, Kisuke was fairly certain that secret was still safe. He looked down at the tight, precise script surrounding detailed graphs and illustrations, reconsidering his complacency.

This young man was dangerous. He'd always known, shocked to his core the first time he'd seen the child clinging to the skirt of an only slightly less intimidating mother. Both of them, souls like stars, but the child's had grown and flared into a nova he could barely stand to look at. Kisuke couldn't decide what was worse – that the boy had no idea what kind of power was hidden inside him, or that Kisuke with all his experience and learning had no idea what the boy truly was.

His companion obviously had no such misgivings, strolling over and jumping onto the narrow legs, collapsing into a ball of black fluff against pale cream cotton. The rigidity lapsed, fists uncurling to indulge the little traitor with scritches behind her ears.

Dark had long since settled, the bright desk-lamp illuminating the next page. He heard the soft grunt escape him, saw the young author stiffen again out of the corner of his eye. He studied the columns of numbers intently for a few minutes, mind racing with computations.

“This is . . . this could be the most accurate timetable I've ever seen.”

“How do you know that?”

Shit. He'd let admiration loosen his tongue. Of course, the boy had caught it, latched onto his lapse. Dangerous, and too clever by far. He would have to either plead ignorance, flee and never return, or tackle this boy head on. He'd suspected as much for years, and the 'flee and never return' option had been his plan all along. Now, though . . .

“How do you know these things?”

Deliberately, he continued to study the timetable while tense silence stretched. Time to make a decision. The boy wouldn't . . . _shouldn't_ trust him without some reciprocation.

“It is accurate, as far as I can tell, accounting for the periodic shifts that make most schedules of gate alignment worthless in months or years. This might not hold up for centuries, but a few decades, at least. Longer if the pattern could prove stable enough to predict future shifts. This could be very valuable.”

“You know about gates? Did you just read that? No, the gates are discussed in the pages after; you already knew.”

With a sigh, he rolled his shoulders back, stretching his neck as he turned to look into the unnerving pools of light that were windows into a soul he did not understand. He didn't have a choice. Fate had fucked him over once again, putting him right in the path of this boy. Whether he was meant to help or hinder, he didn't know. But he was the one who had found and recognized the potential for greatness, so it was up to him to deal with it. Fuck fate.

“I know a great many things. I know you have an unusual source of information about Hollows.” A blink, the boy not missing his choice of names. “What I do not know is if you have any idea what you are dealing with.”

Yoruichi had been listening in but made a show of being the upset sleeping feline when the small hands carefully shifted her off. She stalked, tail lashing, to jump on his shoulder where, conveniently, she had a good view of the large book, and the thick but smaller one that was suddenly dug out of a pile and laid down in front of him. Fine fingers flipped through pages, then spun the open book to face him.

“This is him? Just the one?”

A nod, but he didn't miss how the hands fisted again at the boy's sides, trembling slightly. Smart kid, or incredibly naïve, trusting Kisuke of all people with this kind of information. Then again, who else could the boy turn to? There were no mages in a backwater village like this. Toshiro had no family, no connections to get him the skills he was going to need very soon, the skills he should have already been developing.

“Do you know what that is?”

His finger tapped the illustration, quite fine in its own right for an untrained artist. It could be any man, albeit a striking and strangely captivating one even translated into ink. Were it not for the eyes, that is, and the hint of fangs he knew the creature could easily hide, peeking out from slightly parted lips. What bothered him, well, along with a hundred things that bothered him about such a creature hunting this particular soul, was the amount of detail and the intimacy of the pose, stretched on its side along a branch as one may find a seductive lover posed on a bed.

Another nod, and he stared, waiting, needing to hear confirmation of what the boy knew.

“Vasto Lorde.”

“And he's been hunting you how long?”

“Almost eight years. Though, we’ve only been conversing for three.”

Eight years! Kisuke had figured since the barrier replaced the dragon. It would be remarkable enough for an undefended human to survive any Hollow's attention for more than a month, let alone the nearly three years. But eight? Toshiro would have been barely more than a toddler, half his life lived with the worst predator known to mankind prowling outside his window. Impossible, unless the demon . . ..

“Have you named him?”

A second of confusion, and the tentative trust was locked away again as the boy shook his head. A lie. Or a misunderstanding?

“I didn't ask you to tell me his name. If he has told you a name, it is unlikely that he has lied. They don't, you know, not about themselves. Prideful creatures.” He ignored the claws sinking into his clavicle. “If you have named him, you may yet live to see another year, and maybe some more after that.”

He stood, Yoruichi flattening to keep her balance. The impossible boy looked up at him from the other side of the desk, a thousand questions in those impossible eyes.

“You're dancing with death, young Toshiro. And you don't even know the steps.”

 

oooooooOOOOOooooooo

 

“Will you teach me?”

“No.”

He had to place his palms flat on the desk, the weight of disappointment and hopelessness threatening to make him fall. But he refused to drop his head, or his eyes, catching the baring of small fangs as the cat glared at its master, digging claws into the shoulder again. He'd been so certain this would work. The merchant was more than just a bookseller, that was clear. Toshiro needed an ally; he needed Urahara whether it was just to travel safely, to learn from a scholar, or perhaps, if his suspicions were correct, to learn from a mage.

“Not now, at least. You've given me a lot to think about, young Toshiro. I do not make commitments lightly.”

The sharp clack of the odd wooden shoes on the wooden floor, the merchant was already half-way to the door.

“Will you let me ride with you someday, as far toward Seireitei as you go? I will pay for the guidance.”

Silence and he could breathe again. But the look the gray eyes shot back over a shoulder was not kind. Had Toshiro not been so determined to win at least some concession, he would have flinched.

“And when will you be making this journey?”

“I . . . I don't know. I can't leave gran now. She's frail.”

“Sentiment. Old humans die, boy, it is the way of nature. You linger here where you have never belonged, every second a greater risk to your soul. And did you ever consider this – a creature that powerful does not seek out an ordinary soul, therefore yours is not ordinary. And what risk, then, to your dear granny and everyone you know if you fall? You think nothing will happen, the demon will gain nothing? Did he tell you that?”

“You said they do not lie about themselves.”

A dry, humorless chuckle was the only answer, and the clop of footsteps resumed. What was he going to do now? Chance it alone, traveling roads the maps all warned were dangerous to cities where he was sure he would not be welcome, all the while with a Vasto Lorde on his heels and no shields between them? That's if Ichigo ever came back, he reminded himself bitterly.

No. He'd be stuck here. A life of isolation, with the small joys of his work growing more mundane every day. His books would rot, no one to share the knowledge he had gained. And his demon . . . well, at least that was a way out if life became intolerable. But Ichigo would probably lose interest in him as he stayed here and stagnated.

“You're leaving.”

Of course, he was. He didn't even pause to listen to the pathetic whisper. Everyone leaves. Even Ichigo. He stumbled to the chair, sprawled in the seat as the clopping reached the stairs. With the demon gone, he was truly alone, eyes shutting tight to block out threatening tears.

Suddenly, there was an impact on his legs, and his eyes opened to see the cat back on his lap. As he stared into the black and gold eyes, another stab of loneliness and confusion assailed him. The eyes grew closer, two paws lifting to settle on his chest.

“Yoruichi?”

He didn't dare look away, didn't want to, those eyes too familiar, and he leaned his head forward. The cat stretched, let out the first and only purr he'd ever heard from her, and with a sudden flex bumped her head hard against Toshiro's, right between his eyebrows. By the time he blinked, she'd leaped from his lap and darted out the door. Seconds later, the front door closed, leaving him staring out into the hallway, alone.

 

oooooooOOOOOooooooo

 

“You were hurt.”

The kneeling figure looked up, the gold in the black orbs shining in dim light. There was no evidence of it now, but the few hazy memories agreed. He'd woken with the Vasto Lorde sprawled heavily atop him, that delicious blood coating skin he couldn't imagine being cut – cut by a lover, sure, a deliberate act of seduction, but not by an enemy.

“Worried about me, Grimm?”

_Yes._

“Che. As if. Just glad you got your ass kicked. Makes me feel a little better if that freak was strong enough to take you.”

A flash of fangs far too close when he was still too groggy to do much but get bit and die if Ichigo got pissed, but the madman merely chuckled. The world cleared a little more, and he drew in a deep breath. The fuck was that? Not just Ichigo's scent; not only the decadent spiciness of Vasto Lorde blood.

“The fuck is that?”

The hand he'd raised, reaching for something silver and potent and fucking delicious, was caught in a grip solid as stone and twice as heavy. No grinning or chuckling now, and he pried his eyes away from the shiny bauble hanging so close, looking up to see that cold, vicious calculation of his worth. Same as when that scrawny bitch was about to chop him in two there on the sands. Same as when he'd taunted Ichigo about that human infant.

_Oh._

Deliberately, carefully, he relaxed and looked away, anywhere but at that pendant.

“Two against one, anyway. That blonde punk had me distracted. He'd never of got me if he hadn't cheated.”

Silence while he counted his heartbeats. Any one could be his last. But instead of the bitter self-hatred he'd felt bleeding out at the other Lorde's feet, each measured beat sent a shiver through his veins. Dancing on the edge of Ichigo's mercy, pushing until he stood with one foot over the line, Grimmjow felt more alive than he ever had.

“Not much incentive for him to fight fair, then, is there?”

A bark of laughter and a dizzying wave of adrenaline, once more he'd been reprieved. The orange head dropped again, and he watched, all senses following the subtle and very personal magic being displayed right in front of him.

It was a powerful shield, compact between the Lorde's cupped palms, so strong that Grimmjow couldn't even sense its existence until Ichigo started to dismantle it. It took a lot of power, but he was pretty sure he could manage it. It would be a lot better than the shield he had over his stashes. Hell, if he'd known how to do this, that fuckin' freak never would have waltzed into his territory and tried to steal his cache. Or would he? The guy said he liked to hunt other Lordes and had followed his scent. He sniffed. Well, of course he smelled like Ichigo now, after being cuddled like a teddy bear and nursing on his blood. But did he smell like Ichigo all the time? _Fuck that._

“There. Open up, kitty.”

He growled and had his claws trying to dig into a wrist, a lot like trying to scratch through diamond. See, no way that scarecrow bastard had hurt his Vasto Lorde. Fuck! _Not his_ , though that was a little better than the ownership being the other way around, he supposed.

“Stop that.” The tone one might use with a dog that just peed on the rug. “I didn't do all this to watch you die and taking power from me is not the same as a proper meal.”

Oh, _ooooh_ , his nose twitched, eyes refocusing on the faintly glowing orb inches in front of his face. Not as rare as the two prime souls Ichigo had given him for finding that dragon, but damn fine. His mouth watered, and he gave in to the indignity of being hand fed by a grinning lunatic.

The rush of energy slithered down his throat; he could swear he felt the light of the soul flooding down every nerve. The relief of it had him stretching every muscle, back lifting off the pile of soft blankets, and he heard the moan of pleasure without feeling the least bit ashamed. If this was the kind of treatment he got for nearly getting himself eaten by the worst excuse for a Vasto Lorde ever, he'd have to go find another one to pick a fight with.

Still buzzing from the glorious, fleeting feeling of being full, the hunger for just a precious moment abated, he smiled, probably a dopey grin, really, up at the suddenly very close discs of gold. Huh, even the eyelashes were orange, kinda glowey at the moment, like little candleflames. He tried to touch them with his right hand, just to see if they were hot, and smooth eyelids closed. Probably wise, he thought, watching the tip of his claw graze harmlessly over thin, impervious skin.

“You were hurt.”

The eyelashes weren’t hot, and his mind was starting to clear a bit, enough to be embarrassed but not enough to pull away his hand now cradling along the line of the strong jaw, thumb slipping along the cheekbone. His eyes couldn't help but dart down, that sweet silver and black thing hanging even closer now, smelling like . . . like . . . like sex and killing and being full.

“It happens.”

There was a hand on his ribs. There were no clothes on his ribs. Oh, not this again. Well, what did he expect all sprawled out on the Vasto Lorde’s bed, moaning like a harlot as he was taken care of?

“No, it doesn’t. He dead?”

He hissed as Ichigo moved, hand slipping down to bare (yep) hip with a squeeze of his bone, face dipping to scrape needle-fine points over his jugular, followed by a swipe of tongue (dammit, just a normal tongue, where was that long, forked thing that moved like thick smoke, all dancing, twisting curves?). The man was naked now, too, of course he was, the 'clothes' that were formed of the Vasto Lorde's own power dispelled to expose a body he couldn't help but run his eyes over in admiration.

“Nope,” muttered against his neck.

“No! What the fuck?”

Deadly claws trailed down and back up his leg, certainly leaving welts behind despite him having his defenses up. Unfair, that buck-toothed bastard could slice him to ribbons, leave him bleeding on the sands. Ichigo could do the same thing without breaking a sweat. And no matter how he curled his claws into the seemingly soft skin and fragile ribs, he knew there wasn't a drop of blood yielded without Ichigo's permission.

“You forget, there were two. The second Nnoitra knew I had him beat, his obedient little pet was moving to slice this pretty neck wide open.” His head tilted back, mentally groaning at the image of Ichigo doing just that, cutting his neck and sucking him dry. “That's your trick, too, isn't it? Have a slow lackey around just in case you need to run?”

More than enough of his strength had returned, apparently, and he'd shoved, twisted, and managed to get enough room between the two of them to bite down hard, aiming for the neck, only managing the shoulder, but grinding his fangs in with determination. To his surprise, he tasted an electrifying burst of Ichigo's blood, which he would have feared he was becoming quite addicted to if it weren't for the scent lingering even on the silver chain pressed against his cheek, reminding him that Ichigo's flavor wasn't the only one he could crave.

“Easy, kitty,” the asshole laughed under his teeth and he chewed. “I'm not calling you a coward. I was complimenting your intelligence. Well, your lack of utter stupidity, anyway.”

Hard to keep up a level of outrage when a hand grabbed his semi-hard cock, dry and tight and rough pull of skin. Right to the point, he did appreciate that, his groan into the flesh wrapped around his teeth a jagged blend of arousal and protest. Not protesting what he knew was coming, just the basic discomfort of having his delicates dragged into this by force.

“We're going to hunt him down like a rabid dog,” the sudden cold, vicious tone sent a delicious shiver through him, but the next words made him throb in the slowly working hand, “you and me, Grimm. And when he's lying at our feet, I'm going to watch you tear his carcass apart and devour his heart.”

So caught in the picture painted, he never made a conscious decision to widen his jaw, then lap at the wounds. Tucking his chin, his right eye was an inch away from Ichigo's left, watching him. Hard to read, maybe he was just projecting the hunger and the caution, the respect. But no, Ichigo had spared him many times, had given power and time without asking anything in return . . . well, maybe asking for a little, though Grimmjow knew deep down it wasn't like he hated giving his body. Alright, alright, he fucking loved getting fucked. _There._ He'd admitted it and the world hadn't ended. Not by anyone else though, not now, not ever.

It only bothered him a little, the smug smile he felt before his lips were pressing too hard against the mouth that spoke such wonderful poetry of death and lust. His right leg swung up, wrapping around as much of Ichigo as it could and pulling, dragging with leg and hands and the lure of his tongue until he was willingly spread underneath and around, not fighting at all to take over or to avoid.

Raking claws over impervious skin, catching deceptively soft lips between his fangs, it was all symbolic, a statement that he was no passive, conquered prey simply because he had skipped the usual objections. Grimm was the one with the most to gain, after all, already feeling the surge of power around his lover. Body vibrating with the energy of a high-grade soul and a healthy dose of Ichigo's blood, he felt more aware and ready and eager than he'd ever imagined he could be.

“Take it off,” he growled against the wounds Ichigo allowed to remain open, attacking the muscle only to have that silver chain graze his cheek, the heavy sword pendant bumping his neck.

Golden eyes narrowed at him as Ichigo pulled up and away. One hand reached up as if to remove the chain, then hesitated, dropped back down to land heavy on his chest.

“It stays.”

Instinct had him hissing at that, but he stopped himself from reaching for the necklace to tear it off, strongly suspecting his arm would get torn off instead. It was distracting before. Now it seemed a threat, an interference. That was stupid. It was a _necklace_. From a _human_. A human _child_. What did he think it was going to do, steal his incredible fuck-buddy slash power-source slash secret-weapon-against-Vasto-Lorde-bastards?

“Fine. Get back here.”

Fuck it. Let the fool get sentimental about his human pet. Someday, Ichigo would get tired of the game or the human would do something truly stupid and get eaten. End of story. He'd just have to ignore the temptation to bite into that silver, to taste the honey he could scent on the black centerpiece. He bit into the shoulder again, pulled with his leg again, crushing his pelvis to the lean hips above and moaning around his mouthful of flesh.

The strong hand clasped tight around his neck and he let go. He expected to be shoved back down. Instead, it and the hand that dug into the left side of his ass pulled him, the body above twisting until it was the body underneath him, tangled tight with more deep kisses, the longer tongue coming out to play. For one bright second, he thought Ichigo might be . . . but no, fingers had already worked their way to his center, trailing down and pushing up with no hesitation.

He snapped at that tongue in retaliation even as he canted his hips, knees widening on either side of Ichigo's waist, thankful for both the brutality of the two fingers shoving in so quickly and the tiny expenditure of power Ichigo had used to make his hand slick. He loved it, the small consideration along with the refusal to treat him like some fragile weakling that couldn't take as well as he gave.

And as long as he was on top and, for the first time, not completely high on Ichigo's aura, he might as well enjoy himself. Soon he learned that his own natural tongue, not nearly as long as Ichigo's but wide and strong, was as appealing to the Vasto Lorde as the forked and agile, wicked thing was to Grimm. When he rasped the rough surface over the spicy skin and hard nipple, he earned a rumbling moan that reminded him of one of his own type, a great cat, only even deeper, and he set to work turning those moans into growls while his hips began to flex in time with the fingers fucking him open.

he first wave of intoxication hit him hard, making him fall flat on the hard plane of Ichigo's chest. And yet, he was still aware, not losing chunks of time in terrifying but wonderful waves of darkness and light. Aware enough to know his tail was out, wrapping around the hard cock below working fingers. With a snarl, he tightened and yanked, watching Ichigo's head snap back and hit the bed. Then he deliberately snapped his tail down, whipping the damp flesh in quick side-to-side lashes.

Grimm would remember that, the near scream his actions tore from the apex predator beneath him before the needle teeth snapped at him. It was worth the moment of terror as the Vasto Lorde lifted his weight like a feather, twisted again, slammed him down. Worth it, the pose he'd once thought the most degrading thing ever forced on him, heel of one hand pressing between his shoulders, deadly claws on the nape of his neck. So very worth it, bending his back and spreading his legs, howling when heat and energy slammed into him.

It didn't take long, both of them fighting until need and nature brought their frantic motions into sync. Rough, passionate rocking, hand on his hips slipping down to grasp his cock and let him fuck into the tight fist while powerful thrusts added momentum to every move. It had never felt this good, being fucked. Or he'd never paid attention. But then, what Ichigo was doing was nothing like the others, those distant but never forgotten times when he was weak and was thrown down instead of killed, humiliated, the victor or victors not trying to give pleasure, only punishment. No, nothing like that, bucking back into the snapping hips, being shoved forward into the twisting hand, heat and sweet bliss driving him mad.

It took forever, the initial pain of it stretching like a cutting wire through the increasingly euphoric textures of bruising hands, slicing teeth, soothing tongue, slapping flesh. Wave after wave of power surged through him, not drowning him like before, instead adding to the weight pressing down and in as he gasped. Unable in the end to even give voice to the unreal ecstasy of release, he convulsed, barely aware of the roar above him, the suddenly soft hands catching him and guiding him down.

Giving in under that crushing weight, the struggle and savagery that came naturally only enhancing the novel sensation of complete satiation. Grimmjow would never have believed anything could feel this good. A long life that was all about survival, where every creature was prey or predator, every encounter fight or flight, every interaction one of dominance or death, of course he would never believe that he could submit in safety and pleasure.

It was new, and wonderful, and more than a little frightening, and he purred as he stretched under the heavy blanket of another body, pushing up to press his neck to the slowly lapping tongue.

This is what it had come to, what he had been reduced to, once king of all he surveyed, now a bitch. But bitch to a god. Couldn't get much better than that.

 


	12. Chapter 12

Sucking in a quick breath between his teeth, Toshiro dabbed away fresh blood and pushed, holding the skin of his thigh tight for the last two rapid punctures of the curved needle. The stitches were neat and precise, and he drew his face back to admire his own work before bending close again to carefully tie off the thread. It was hardly the first time he'd patched himself up, and he'd built a rather extensive collection of medical goods. It was necessary. The two healers in town refused to see him, so he'd taught himself.

It was a sloppy mistake. The retired guardsman finally deemed him worthy of practicing with true-edged weapons, and immediately he let himself get cut. The man considered it a good lesson, saying Toshiro's distraction had no place in a fight. _Well, obviously_ , he thought as he smeared a paste of yarrow and goldenrod over the wound and wrapped a long strip of clean linen around his leg. He was lucky it was just a cut on the outer thigh, deep enough to need a little help healing but not serious enough to stop practicing, earning a little of his self-respect back.

He placed the bottle back in his kit of tinctures and ointments, mostly made in his own kitchen from plants he had grown or gathered in the nearby fields and forest, and thought again of the bookseller. All this he had learned from books, the merchant seeking out and bringing him texts on herbs and medicine along with the myriad other topics he had expressed interest in. For years, it had been a relationship he had counted on. He knew now he had made a terrible mistake in not cultivating a friendship, or at least something more reliable than customer and seller.

Too late. His efforts had led to a cold dismissal. He had rushed to the market the next morning to find the merchant gone, the city gates still shut tight against the terrors of the night. Not that he had needed any more evidence, but managing to exit the city in the middle of a demon night was further proof that Urahara was not ordinary, and that made the pain of his failure worse. Toshiro had lost the dragon, then the demon, now the mage or whatever the _simple merchant_ might be.

Standing, he tested weight on his leg and found nothing much worse than soreness. Hopefully, it would not bleed and he could wrap it tight; he didn't want to miss his riding lesson now that he was working with Kumori. Even if it wasn't a pure pleasure to ride the intelligent and powerful gray, he relished the sour looks of the stablehands that all had taken punishment from the gelding's hooves or teeth, well-deserved punishment. Often, he felt the horse had the same disdain for the town, the same desire to escape that was a constant ache in the back of his mind.

A couple of shuffling footsteps and the jangle of keys were enough warning for him to cover the supplies and red-stained cloth with a clean towel. Wincing with the effort that pulled new stitches, he barely managed to yank on the fresh trousers and kick the ones ruined with blood under the couch.

“Toshiro?”

She always called as she opened the door. She rarely came through his door anymore. He went to her these days, took care of her and her home, let her cook sometimes so that she still felt useful. He didn't tell her in words but in deeds that she was useful, simply by existing, by being one human that somewhat knew him and didn't treat him like some kind of diseased thing. True, he had more such humans now, the people he did business with long enough that they had started to look at him like a thing with value. But they did not come to his home. They did not invite him to their homes. They had not treated his mother with respect and known him as an infant, and made sure he ate when he had lost everything.

“Grandmother? Is everything okay?”

"Oh, there you are, my boy!”

He doubted she noticed the slight limp as he stepped toward the door, her eyesight and attention not being what it used to be. Taking the cloth-covered basket from her hands, he moved aside for her to come in from the cold. Spring had arrived, but she should not be out when even the day was still subject to sudden chill winds.

“I felt like baking after our breakfast, so I brought you two loaves. You've been looking a bit thin. Well thinner than usual. I swear, boy, you'd have blown away in the wind by now if I didn't keep trying to put some fat on you. Now, fetch a couple of plates and butter, best enjoy some while it's still warm.”

It was automatic, the way he half-tuned out the words that continued to flow, moving to do as told. Usually, he found it comforting, just having a routine was proof that he did, in fact, have a relationship with another human being that had continued and thrived for years. The inconvenience as she casually interrupted an already busy day only caused a minor flash of annoyance, a more than acceptable price to pay.

By the time he'd cut through the crisp crust to find the soft white bread still steaming, butter melting golden and delicious, she had covered the topics of baking, the change in weather, the death of a fairly harmless old man Toshiro barely knew, and yet another marriage of a less harmless young couple, a pair of snakes well suited to one another. He placed pots of honey and jam and sat at the table without responding to any of it beyond a mild smile and nod when appropriate.

“Oh, will you look at that! You still have strawberry. I do hope you tended the strawberry patch over the winter. Well, I still have some apricot but there's nothing quite like strawberry jam on fresh bread, you know. And yours are better than the ones at the market.”

Which led to another five minute ramble about the market, and how she hoped the warmer weather would bring more merchants as if that wasn't the pattern year after year for as long as the town had existed. He slowly prepared another slice and waited. Possibly this was just a spontaneous visit, though Toshiro could not remember the last time she had dropped by without a purpose other than simply visiting.

“Good thing we have the general store. It would be hard to get through the winter when the merchants don't show up.”

That wasn't true at all, though he didn't bother pointing it out. Toshiro had set foot in the general store near the center of town once and only once since his mother's passing. He had no trouble growing and preserving food, finding plenty to supplement his stock from the merchants who would sell to him and trading with the local farmers. What he couldn't buy, make, or forage he learned to do without. And that since the age of eight.

_Old humans die, boy, it is the way of nature. You linger here where you have never belonged, every second a greater risk to your soul._ The merchant was probably right. Staying here, he was likely a greater risk to the old lady. He attracted strange things, deadly things. Or was he only looking for an excuse to do what he wanted?

“I just went there this morning, in fact, to get flour.”

“You should have told me, grandmother. I could have gotten it for you.”

How, he wasn't sure. His last attempt to patronize the store had ended with him bolting out, humiliated by the things the proprietor had called him in front of customers who seemed to agree. That had been seven years ago, but he had more than one reason to avoid the place.

“Nonsense, boy, I can still do my own shopping. Besides, the owner himself carried my bags home for me. We talked about you. He could use some help bookkeeping. Seems he's let things get behind, and his son is too busy to help much. Getting married this summer, you know. You two were friends once, I think. Anyway, he'd like to hire you, and I told him I was sure you'd be excited to take on such a reputable client. He was pleased to hear that, let me tell you, gave me a discount and everything. And he's got this new fabric, real sturdy stuff, I was thinking of . . .. Toshiro?”

All in all, he thought he did well, holding his composure while his stomach cramped and his blood turned to ice. He didn't snarl, or shout, or run off, all of which would have been reasonable reactions when the one person who may know you a little betrays you, sells you off to the enemy without a bat of the eye. Melodramatic, he realized after he'd managed to take a breath. The old lady didn't know, and that wasn't her fault. Toshiro had never told her the truth.

“Toshiro, are you alright?”

“Fine. I'm fine.”

She was silent for a moment, there across from him, not moving. He appreciated it, knowing he would likely flinch if not panic should anyone touch him. And he resented it, that she could tell he was upset and yet made no move to comfort. Was it so much to ask?

“Well. I don't think you're eating enough, my boy. I'll cook dinner tonight, feed you up a bit. I'll tell Kusaka not to expect to hear from you anytime soon, you need to get some rest.”

“No.” His teeth clenched for a moment. He was an adult now, a productive member of society. No place for the fears of childhood. “I'll go tomorrow, see what he needs.”

“Good, good!” Whatever concern she may have had for him vanished in her pleasure at getting what she wanted. He felt exhausted. “It will be good for your business. I should get going. Don't forget, I'll do the cooking tonight! Do bring some of that strawberry jam, though, we'll have some more for dessert.”

The twinge of pain in his thigh as he stood was a welcome distraction, and he saw her to the door. He wasn't sure if he managed a fake smile goodbye, but he was sure she didn't pause as she bustled passed him and off toward her home.

 

oooooooOOOOOooooooo

 

It was getting more noticeable, which was saying something. True, he hadn't known Ichigo long, and this was by far the longest amount of time they'd spent in close company, but in his experience the Vasto Lorde was irritatingly calm. It wasn't hard to provoke anger; it dissipated quickly with the right signals of apology and submission. This weird blend of short-tempered anxiety and absentmindedness, though, was really creeping him out.

“Ichigo?”

Disturbingly like a flinch, the Lorde's whole frame twitched and the clawed hand opened. With a wet thud, the body fell to the sands and rolled slowly downhill. Under any other circumstances, Grimmjow would have pounced, ripped into the rare feast of a fellow fledgling and greedily devoured flesh and spirit until he was a drunken pile of content fur purring on the bloody sands.

Not while that distant gaze focused in on him without a glint of recognition, pupils slits of black in pools of searing yellow. Not when fine white fangs parted with a low hiss that sent a shiver of alarm down his spine. Not when the bloody claws flexed on fingers too long, too angular, with a distinct pattern of smokey-gray scales covering the once soft skin.

“Hey, Ichigo, it's me. You alright?”

Stupid question. His clawed feet flexed, tail lashing with the adrenaline of the kill and the flight instinct that flashed through him like lightning when the fine lips that had kissed every inch of his body drew back in a snarl. He was tensed to run, useless as that would be, foolish as that would be. _Never run, it makes you prey_ , never run when you can't be certain of escape.

Forcing the lethal panic down, forcing himself still, he lowered his eyes. It wasn't just instinct anymore; Ichigo's power had seen to that. Grimmjow's mind was clearer, sharper every day. He was too evolved to not know what he was doing as he relaxed his stance and tilted his head, baring his throat. It had worked so far, though this was a bit further than he wanted to take it. The air was thick with killing intent, the Lorde's power that thrummed inside him now sharp as a razor.

“My pretty kitty.”

That was the voice Ichigo used when threatening others, distorted and high-pitched, manic, Hollow. He stayed silent and still, not trusting his own voice. There was at least a little pride saved as he stopped himself from whining like a kicked dog.

It was his turn to flinch at the sudden movement, almost too fast to see had his attention not been completely centered on the predator in front of him. The claws were long and curved, easily caging his jaw, tips grazing just below his eyes where he could feel still-warm blood smearing onto his skin. Careful, as if handling something precious and fragile, the pressure of hardened scale pushed against his chin, turning and lifting his face. A choked sound betrayed the sob of relief that wanted to escape when he met eyes calming to gold, the rim of black returning, fangs visibly shrinking.

“Eat.”

And he was released, the Lorde stepping back and collapsing down, sitting on the stained sand with arms wrapped around drawn up knees. Not a subservient pose, but as non-threatening as Ichigo could be when still somewhat feral, eyes trailing up to the horizon and away. A deep breath, the bland world drenched in vibrant color as his nerves sang with excitement.

“What the fuck is going on with you?”

Not wise, snapping at the dangerous creature that had just killed his equal in power as easily as a cat crunching down on a mouse. But then, Grimmjow wasn't known to be wise, especially when he was pissed. And he was, now that it was evident he'd live through another one of the crazy bastard's mood swings. He hated that feeling, being prey, being caught prey. And he really hated the fact that it made him hard as steel, nearly cumming every time he dodged certain death.

A slow blink and a second of awareness, that voice thankfully back to the controlled tenor.

“It's going to waste.”

He glanced down the dune. True. The body was already breaking, but he could still capture most of the energy. Stupid to let it escape over Ichigo's bizarre temper tantrum. He stalked down the slope, his power reaching ahead of him to gather and condense the dark swirls into one glowing black mass he could grab and swallow. Despite the fading fear, annoyed rage, and growing worry, his stomach clenched in a demand.

“Fine. But you'd better get your shit together. We're no closer to finding that prick. Maybe we should take a break, huh?”

Hesitating one more second before giving in to the hunger morphing to starvation, he looked back up. Add a sting of jealousy, stupid emotion, his lip curling in disgust as he watched the now elegant fingers caressing the silver wires, the thin black blade with it's dark rubies that hinted at the blood soaked into the black stone he could smell despite the distance and the carnage surrounding him.

_Idiot_. He couldn't believe it took him so long to figure it out. Well, he'd been having too much fun. Hunting a Vasto Lorde, with a Vasto Lorde at his side, he felt so alive that it was almost surreal. Add to that the frequent sex, waking afterwards feeling content, safe (and cuddled, which he didn't like, at all, except when he kinda did), every time more powerful than he'd ever dreamed of being, it was not his fucking fault he'd been blind to what was going on.

“Yeah. Fuck it. I'm going back to my pack, make sure they ain't killed each other.” He grabbed the compact ball of dark light, viciously suppressing the painful urge to eat it, and praised himself for mastering Ichigo's trick of holding energy in this form to use later. “You go do whatever you do when I'm not around to entertain your sorry ass. See ya.”

Half expecting an enraged Lorde to grab him by the scruff and drag him back to the cave, he walked away with an air of confidence he didn't feel. Maybe, he would have been hurt when Ichigo didn't come after him. Maybe, he would have sulked about it for days and worked himself into a useless rage over a stupid fucking human child. Maybe, it would have bothered him, if he hadn't heard the light chuckle and the words of praise before he raced off to mind his own business for a while.

“Clever kitty.”

 

oooooooOOOOOooooooo

 

The demon returned to him without fanfare. No dramatic fight culminating in gory cannibalism. No lightning strikes as the barrier was torn down before he was torn apart. No explanation falling with apologetic tones from sinfully perfect lips. Not even a knowing smirk.

All the possible scenarios he had imagined as he stared into the empty tree, or at the blank space on the grass beneath, or at the sinister dark curve of the forest in the distance did not, in fact, present themselves. All the answering words of accusation, the shy acceptance, the bold denial of any wish to hear another lie or truth simply died a quiet, unmourned death as he stared.

It wasn't right that he said nothing when he caught sight of orange hair glowing in the sunset light. It was wrong that his demon leaped into the tree and sat with long, long legs dangling into empty air. As if they had just seen one another. As if they hadn't been apart for months. As if the demon hadn't left without any explanation and as if he hadn't gone through hell thinking he had lost Ichigo forever.

“You have been hurt. Did another human do this to you, my sweet?”

It wasn't right that he could even draw breath to answer, that he could answer the question so casually at all. It was so completely wrong that the tight knot in his chest unraveled so rapidly that he staggered under the onslaught of relief. _Ichigo was back._ Nothing else seemed to matter, though he could feel the anger and hurt simmering beneath the startling joy.

“What do you care, demon? I'm not yours to protect.”

The demon does care, though. Toshiro does belong to the demon, though. The baring of fangs and the deep growl were unnecessary declarations of these facts when the gold eyes raked up and down his body. The wound, insignificant and already well on the mend, was hidden under bandage and cotton, behind the stone wall and wooden windowsill, yet the predatory gaze locked on the very patch of red skin and black thread.

“You weren't here, anyway. Where have you been?”

_There. It's been said._ His voice didn't sound as angry as he thought it should, conveying none of the grief and blame and pain of lying awake knowing he was no longer good enough. His voice didn't even sound particularly devastated, as if the words were not as heavily weighted as a dying breath.

“What do you care where I've been, human? I most definitely am not yours to control.”

Toshiro did care, though, immensely. And this demon was most definitely his. His eyes gave the thick silver chain a caress on their way down to the deliberately exposed sternum, and he smiled as he appreciated the fact that he was right. The pendant was quite lovely resting there, the failing glow of the sinking sun creating flashes of white-gold fire as the tangle of silver twisted against shaking skin, the demon's chuckling building into outright laughter.

He joined in, quietly laughing in horror at the hopeless mess of his own heart. _And that's okay. That's just fine_. Because Ichigo had come back for him, and he could see it in the way the demon leaned toward him, the glint of fangs as the demon smiled and laughed, the searing touch of predatory eyes seeking out his vulnerabilities. He was still wanted.

“What have you been doing, my sweet? Something dangerous?”

Ah, he hadn't forgotten how it made him feel, that endearment which had once annoyed him, then confounded him, then started to make him feel warm every time he heard _my sweet_ in that honey voice.

“I believe I asked first.”

“No. If you wish to play it that way, as I recall I asked about your injury.” The demon's nostril's flared with a deep intake of breath, eyes drifting down to the hidden thigh. “A significant wound, I'd say. Not an accident.”

It was shocking, really, how quickly he fell into their rhythm, how comfortable it made him. But there it was, and he didn't want it to be any other way.

“What makes you think that? I've had worse from falling out of the tree. But if you must know, it's just a cut from sword practice.”

“Sword?”

Ichigo grinned, and Toshiro glared at him. He pictured his little human struggling to hold a blade as long as its wielder, not so little anymore but still rather small to be a mighty warrior. Though, he was glad his human was familiar with weaponry. Ichigo could tell just by the scent of blood and medicine that the boy was downplaying the injury. His Toshiro was nearly defenseless, soft and young and beautiful in a nest of rats.

“Yes, sword. You know, long, pointy thing to poke holes in people, you have one at your waist.”

As quick to take offense as his fledgling, just a prick of that pride and watch the cheeks flush and the jaw clench, flash of fire in bright turquoise. He had missed the little one so, and could not halt the wave of affection and happiness to be close to his human again. Such emotions should shock him, but he'd become rather used to this feeling, happiness, since the first time he'd felt the joy in the little heart over the intolerable distance that separated them. When, exactly, that tenderness invaded his own heart, he couldn't say, and couldn't really be bothered to care. _It was_ , and it was good.

“I happen to be rather talented with a sword.” He held out his hand, palm up and fingers stretched out in invitation. “I could teach you. If you have any talent at all, I could make you one of the best swordsmen in your world.”

The derisive scoff was expected. The way the boy threw himself back in the chair, sprawl of limbs and arrogant tilt of head, that was new. It was a rather masculine pose, open posture almost a challenge, and his mouth watered as he took in the fact that his little human . . . his Toshiro was no longer a boy. _Finally._

“Yes, demon. I'll just grab my sword and come out there to fight you. I'm sure that will end well for me.”

His voice dropped to a seductive purr as he stood on the branch, forcing the _young man_ to tilt his head upward to meet his eyes.

“You may be quite surprised how well it would end for you, sweetheart.”

The playful air between them thickened, smirk fading slowly as pupils dilated and lashes shivered. _Yes. Yes, lovely soul, lonely soul, see me, come to me, let me have all your light._

“I've been very angry with you.”

He blinked, surprised by the quiet accusation, especially given the arousal and deep sadness he could sense. He wondered again how such a brief and fragile existence could survive so much turmoil. Perhaps that was why they died so quickly, minds broken and worn away from trying to cope with the riot of emotion. His head cocked in inquiry, and he lapped up the surge in arousal that action always brought.

“For not being here?”

“At first, yes. Then, I realized I should be glad you were gone with no sign of returning. Why would I not be happy that the demon waiting outside my window to rip me apart was no longer there? And that made me far more angry, because you'd left me, and I didn't want you to. You see? What kind of life can I ever have, when I miss the demon who will be my death?”

For a moment, he couldn't speak, could only bask in wonder and bliss. All worlds narrowed down to two prismatic blue-green stars, shining with the power of an incomparable soul exposing itself, laying itself open in honesty and truth. His Toshiro was dazzling, blinding, _MINE_.

And his precious soul was hurting. It was his fault. The pain of his prey no longer gave him pleasure, not this kind of pain.

It was on the tip of his tongue. _I could never be your death. Your life will be extraordinary, my sweet. You are extraordinary in every way, and your life has only begun._

The words stayed on his tongue. It seemed a paltry lie to vow such dedication in the face of such a raw confession of vulnerability. Toshiro would not believe him anyway, with good reason. Ichigo himself was not sure it was true, the temptation to consume his delectable little human may be too great. It was easy to think of sparing Toshiro's life from this side of the barrier. Once that soul was within his grasp . . . he was not certain what he would do, only that it would be glorious.

“I did not leave you without intention to return as soon as I was able.”

With a long sigh, thick, black lashes fell, and it was as if the sky has suddenly gone dark, sun, moon, stars erased from reality. Ichigo's breath caught, a pang of loss and remorse . . . _remorse?_

“I am tired, Ichigo. Tell me something interesting.”

Suddenly, Ichigo remembered the toddler who danced with the dragon, who ensnared the imagination of a creature that deserved the sobriquet _demon_. He remembered how badly he wanted to capture that soul, to make it his own, and in so doing, snuff it out of existence. He remembered the nights when they first began to speak to one another, when he had resolved to capture his prey before the brilliant mind turned stale with maturity, wonder fading into tiredness.

“There are a few worlds where humans are aware that their own world is not the only one in existence, and fewer worlds where humans can actually travel between worlds to see the evidence that they are not alone. The humans in these worlds often speculate about where they all came from, whether humanity somehow traveled and populated across worlds, or whether their kind were created in various ridiculous ways on multiple worlds.

“It is very rare for a human to even notice that their kind is not the only conscious species existing on multiple worlds. Rarer still for a human scholar or mage to make note and study such occurrences, as you have. Even here, where the mages know of the existence of demons, they do not understand that they see such a small part of the picture.”

He could see the lines of tension shifting, from the exhaustion brought on by intense stress, to the familiar crease of thought as swooping brows pinched together above the hidden windows of Toshiro's soul.

“My kind are not the only ones who travel between worlds far more freely than humans. We are not the only ones who know their world of origin, yet have made a place for themselves on many worlds. Those humans on this world who consider themselves wise have written volumes on where dragons come from, for example. Only the truly foolish, which is most of them, believe that dragons could possibly be from this world.”

The bright eyes snapped open, and Ichigo didn't bother to hide his grin as the anxiety and bitterness was consumed by curiosity.

“Of course. Unless you think some god snapped his fingers and a fully populated world sprang into existence, it doesn't make any sense.” All traces of weariness vanished, the young man leaning forward and speaking fast. “Living things fall into categories, with hundreds or thousands of creatures that are similar. Except dragons. Four limbs plus wings, the impossible physics of flight given the weight of strong bone and scale, the very impossible chemistry of spitting fire and ice and acid . . . they don't fit.”

“Some argue that they must, then, have been intentionally created through human magic, either from nothing or from modifying existing animals such as lizards.”

Toshiro snorted. “Unlikely. The mages from before the first Demon War were much more powerful. But the records are clear, they only managed to bargain with dragons for their services as weapons against demons. Often as not, they failed in their negotiations and were destroyed or eaten.”

“Humans lose their history in less than a generation, particularly in times of upheaval.”

That gave the little scholar a moment's pause, but only a moment. “If humans had created them, surely they would control dragons still, or some legend of enslaved dragons would exist. No, either dragons came from elsewhere, or most other animal life in this world came from elsewhere.”

"Interesting conclusion.”

Toshiro stood. Had the human grown in the short time Ichigo had been away? Or had absence made him notice the lankier appearance, the longer fingers that reached for the glass figurine Ichigo had left as a gift. It was a perfect compliment to the hand that cradled it, a delicate work of art so easily broken, so deserving of being preserved.

“It's right isn't it?”

“It is. Dragons have a home world, as do Hollow. Like my kind, they have traveled many worlds. Unlike my kind, they have settled and lived their lives on many worlds rather than return home. They are alien to your world, but have been here likely since humans were still struggling to create fire.”

“Have you been there, Ichigo?” He basked in the full attention of that astounding mind, clear and sharp without the clouding of sorrow. “Have you seen the world they come from?”

“It is a very dangerous place for a Hollow, one of the few worlds we dare not tread.”

A flash of white teeth, a spark of admiration. “And you have been there.”

“Their world is as improbable as they are, my sweet. A world so rich in energy that a massive creature that glides on the wind and breathes ice does not seem unusual at all. Dragons are the dominant species there, but by no means the only intelligent life.”

The chair was dragged forward, pretty hands carefully setting the glass dragon off to one side before folding on the windowsill to provide a place for the smooth chin to rest. Not quite smooth, the hairs shaved short and so fine and pale they could be invisible. He licked his lips, imagining the slight rasp of that hair on his tongue, imagining burrowing his face into the softer silk of the white, wild mane.

“Tell me more.”

He settled back down, stretched on his side along the branch as he had done for so many nights. His human's gaze drifted down and up the long lines he artfully arranged as they had done for so many nights. And they talked, the cadence of storyteller breaking occasionally into the exchange of teacher and pupil.

His Toshiro truly was tired, had obviously not been resting. His fault again. But the young man's attention stayed keen until an hour or two before the dawn, yawns becoming more frequent, questions becoming scarce. When the white-crowned head shifted, slumping to rest cheek on forearm with a short huff of breath, he let his words trail off.

How had he stayed away so long? He had felt the pull to return, growing stronger the longer he tried to ignore it. It was very like the instinct to return home, the draw that could eventually kill a Hollow who found itself stranded or trapped beyond a gate. It was disturbing, this power the human seemed to have gained over him without his knowledge, and he had no idea how it was possible. But surely, should it become a danger, he could simply take Toshiro's soul and thus the pull would end. Or, he could take the human, keep Toshiro with him, forever by his side as he was, astonishing soul in beautiful body. What an odd idea.

Watching the slumbering human until dawn, laughing quietly at the occasional snore and grumble, he let heavy thoughts drift off. And he knew as the light began to break and he stood to leave, he would not stay away again.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next couple of chapters are packed with action, blood, seduction . . . finally. For those who are wondering when Ichigo will get his claws on Toshiro - soon. For those wondering when Grimm/Hitsu and Grimm/Ichi/Hitsu happens - that's still a ways off. Shouldn't be a long delay this time for the next chapter, maybe a week!


	13. Chapter 13

Most of his life, Toshiro had avoided everyone. Especially his so-called peers. Adults knew no cruelty like that of children. The venomous glares from adults, curses, occasional hits with whatever happened to be in their hands, it was nothing at all compared to the taunts and jeers of children. For the words of children were just a way to test, like a pack of wolves nipping and driving to see which victim is weakest, which would not stand and fight. They worked up each other's courage as they broke down the will of their target, attacking when they had already won.

That was still true now, though Toshiro was now an adult himself. He had survived, even thrived despite the prejudice, and there were some adults who might even give him a friendly wave or nod in public. The rest kept their hatred mostly quiet, hateful but not harmful, and he knew which places to avoid, keeping mostly to the familiar routine of his life. It was still the children who reminded him that he was a bastard, an outcast. Often, they didn't know the meanings behind the names they called him, and the little packs of vermin would flee if they ever were loud enough that he looked, unable to pretend not to hear. They let him know what their parent's said behind closed doors. They were honest in a way the adults rarely were.

It was much worse, obviously, when he was a child himself. Toshiro only had to fall victim once to learn his lesson that he had no friends, only enemies. And once more to learn that simply ignoring them was not enough, he had to avoid and flee. Since then, he had been hurt or chased, but never again caught. Adults, of course, were no help, some even encouraging his tormentors. Only his mother was safe, the others, at best, turned a blind eye. So, the majority of his childhood was lived within a few steps of his mother or his home.

The newfound freedom that came with being a little older, bigger, having a job to do, and a few adults who not only tolerated him but defended him to some degree could go to his head sometimes. It seemed silly, to get a thrill being able to walk down the street alone without constantly watching his shadow or venture into a store with some hope of not being forced to leave. And now he had lessons in fighting with sword and knife, instruction in horseback riding, and training in working with metal from the blacksmith and the silversmith, all of which gave him pleasure and confidence.

Silly. He spent nights with a dragon and then with a demon. What was there ever to fear or to wonder at in the daylight?

He tried to avoid looking at the source of his doubts, keeping his eyes on his task. He did not have to stay long, just take the week's paperwork, file what was completed, and make a few notations in the books. Another ten minutes at most, and he could retreat to safety, if the asshole behind the counter would just mind his own business and let him mind his. Sick or not, the shopkeeper was crazy to leave his son in charge. Oh, Sojiro wasn't stupid, probably wouldn't steal too much or wreck the place.

The good-boy act was as false as the understanding and kindness Sojiro had once shown to lure a small, strange boy into trusting him. It had been laughably easy, Toshiro's initial wariness defeated in less than a month, too happy to finally have a friend to see the looks exchanged between the boy he started to idolize and the snickering masses. A few kind gestures, defending him against a lesser bully or two, seemingly genuine smiles, that's all it took to make him willingly walk into the trap. It did not bode well for the end-game with his demon.

Speeding up, he just wanted to leave. He could just as easily come back tomorrow, or the next day, when the shopkeeper was back. Sojiro's father had no liking for Toshiro, but had made a business deal. The man would keep his son civil. Gritting his teeth, he tended to the details. He wouldn't let a years-old incident between small children ruin his work. He had grown. His tormentor had grown. More than a year older than him, Sojiro was eighteen now. He had chosen a girl three years younger and had to wait to marry, but was soon to be a husband and likely to be a father within a year. Terrifying thought.

Toshiro would not marry. He was not considered a suitable match for the poorest girl in the city, he knew this, and Sojiro had already taunted him about that fact. Married or not, they were men now, and they should be beyond such pettiness. There was nothing to be afraid of here.

“So, Toshiro, taking my dad's money now, little whore?”

_Shit._ The two customers had left. He kept his eyes down, making his entries to keep the accounts balanced and then he would be done. Sojiro might harass him, but he wouldn't hurt him. They weren't kids anymore.

“I work for my wages. Nothing you could not do yourself if you would care to learn the details. I would be happy to teach you.”

It was the truth. With a wealthy merchant as a father, Sojiro had more education than most, and had thoroughly squandered that gift. Toshiro would gladly have shown the young man how to itemize and balance, though if Sojiro hadn't learned as much by now, he probably was too lazy to care.

“Ever so superior, aren't you? Always were, the little bastard who thinks he's so much better than everyone.”

He shut the ledger, tense with the need to run and knowing from experience what a mistake that would be. When the shopkeeper had asked for his help, he had hesitated to take the job, knowing who the man's son was. But as he had told the demon, humans would do anything for money. He may have ignored the fact that the old lady had been the one to ask him to do this, but hanks to his plans for the future he needed the money. He was just another average human now, regretting letting greed influence his decision.

“No smart comeback, Toshiro? Just gonna tuck tail and run? Here I thought we were friends.”

If he had obeyed instinct, he would not have the threatening man looming over him. The same boy who had pretended friendship for weeks just to watch and laugh at the heartbreak on his face when his only friend handed him over to the pack. He hated that he had fallen for it. He hated that it still had the power to break his heart, such hope turned into such crushing sorrow. He hated that some small part of him would have forgiven the false friend if only the boy had ever offered one ounce of lying apology.

“Shoulda finished you off back then, put you out of your misery. That's what you do with runts.”

Was it him? Did he attract human predators just like he drew his demon? He stood straight and looked directly in the violet eyes that charmed so many. No adults ever saw this twisted face, the eager sneer, eyes narrowed and filled with sadistic merriment. This one, too, like the demon, anyone would call handsome. Wickedness and cruelty behind a veneer that pleased the eye.

“Tell you what, bastard. You get down on your knees and I'll let you suck a real man's cock. Do a good job, and I'll give you a tip like a good little whore.”

Refusing to panic, he gathered his work. He wasn't certain exactly what Sojiro meant, but he understood the words well enough, and he knew what the few women called whores in the town were mocked and castigated for. His own mother had been called whore often enough, and she was the furthest thing from what the word implied. Sojiro had never suggested anything so vulgar before. A vicious bully, yes, but Sojiro wouldn't take it that far. He couldn't.

“I'm finished. Please tell your father I hope he feels well.”

He turned, hoisting his satchel full of papers and books onto his shoulder only to have it drop heavily onto the floor when he was yanked backwards.

“Oh, you're finished, alright, you little freak.”

 

oooooooOOOOOooooooo

 

“Toshiro! You stay down, or I'll add another bump on your empty head.”

She walked slowly, trying not to show that it was difficult to carry the bowl of water. The boy had come to her for help for the first time in years, and she was damn well going to help. He had nowhere else to go, she knew that. And he had already told her he would get up and leave if she sent for a healer. So, she lugged the bowl to the low table and sat on the edge of the couch where the battered body took up too little room. He had grown so much, was even starting to put on some muscle but was still small for his age. She held back the tears, anguished that anyone could do such a thing to such an angelic child.

“Now then, I know you don't want to tell me who did this. But this is a peaceful town, my boy. People can't do these things, there are laws.”

“Don't worry, I already took care of it.”

She could tell by his voice that it hurt to talk. Hopefully he wouldn't lose any teeth. It was exceedingly rare to see it, but the boy had such a nice smile.

“Oh, did you now?”

“Um. You should see his hands. Sore knuckles for at least a week. That was all me.”

“Stupid boy.”

The boy sighed as she replaced the cold cloth on the swelling lump over his left temple and started cleaning blood from his face. There was blood on his clothes, too, and she knew she would find bruises, broken skin, maybe broken ribs. The first time Toshiro was only seven, and he had told her and his mother everything that happened, how the children started with pushing and insults, then hitting, and finally took turns kicking after he had fallen to the ground. Told them everything except a single name.

The second time, six months or so after his mother's death, the boy had limped home and said not a word, hiding the severity of his wounds until the next morning when she had to climb all those stairs to find him feverish in bed. He had never told her a name, hadn't even told her what had happened, simply ignoring or evading every question just like he was doing now.

“I'm sorry, grandmother. This is your favorite blanket.”

“Well, stop bleeding all over it, foolish brat.”

They had that in common, their sharp tongues and the way they used sarcasm to deal with emotions that got out of control. She let him change the subject, but she promised herself to work on him later, after she'd done what she could. Whatever lowlife did this needed to be held accountable. Another pass of the wet rag and he hissed as blood came away to reveal a long gash over his right eye. The entire area would bruise badly.

“I hate to ask, but can I just rest here, and I'll use your kitchen to make dinner?”

There was no space on him that wasn't already hurt, so she smacked the cushion instead.

“I said stay down and I meant it! You will shut your mouth and let me clean you up. Then I will get you a better pillow and you will sleep until I have dinner on the table.” The split and bloodstained lips parted. “No backtalk, young man!”

Toshiro would have smiled at that but held his breath to keep from groaning instead when she leaned over him, inadvertently pushing on his sore arm, badly bruised from trying to protect his stomach. He hated causing her worry, especially now when it was obvious that the effort was already wearing on her.

If he hadn't come here, he would have collapsed on the street, in front of all the cold eyes that had watched him limp and stumble by with no offer to help and anything could have happened then. He should no longer be surprised. It wasn't the first time he'd had to drag himself, bloody and whimpering, through the streets. It wasn't the first time he had to throw his broken body against a wall to avoid running into a passing human being, more afraid of the consequences, the way they would shout and hit him for daring to touch them.

He'd only just turned nine the last time, tiny for his age as he struggled to get home, blacking out twice to bleed in the snow and slush as people walked by with huffs and curses. Any other child would have drawn a crowd of outraged adults, full of compassion and grief for the injured innocent. But he was not any child.

 

oooooooOOOOOooooooo

 

Eager to see what this night would bring, he approached the town and the familiar blend of anxiety and excitement. There was also emotional and physical pain. He had felt his human's pain before, a twisted ankle, a cut on the leg, _mmm_ the scent of his Toshiro's blood, a scent carried with him everywhere now. This pain was different, dangerous, and his steps quickened, his own anticipation turning sour. The window was open. The bright, brave soul never closed it now, never since the night they had parted in anger and reunited in blood. Even when the boy was angry or scared and retreated from him, even after Ichigo had left, not returning when the gates aligned and leaving Toshiro alone and hurting, the window was left open.

“Good evening, Ichigo.”

The white hair was all he saw, the boy's chair turned slightly away from the window, head down to continue reading. He bit back the impulse to order the boy to look at him, to tell him what had happened to cause such pain. Arrogant, ignorant human, thinking to hide anything from him. His Toshiro did not know, of course, that the speed of the fragile heart, the spike of adrenaline, that flush of pleasure at his presence were as clear to him as the falsely calm words.

While he waited, silent, he pondered the irony. The emotions of his human were still so diverting. It was quite obvious, the moment the boy said his name the stale fear and the sharp anxiety faded into relief and contentment. His prey found his arrival soothing, felt safe when a creature that came to kill him appeared out of the night. His chuckle made the slightly hunched back stiffen. And still he waited, smiling, waited for his Toshiro to give in when clearly the boy did not want to resist, wanted to turn and take comfort in the sight of his death.

An attempt at a deep sigh, breath hitching, damage to the ribs or lungs. He knew every way to break and wound a human body, so soft, so difficult to keep alive once things started to go wrong. The feathery black lashes were down, the pretty effect ruined on the right side by the livid purple shading to black, swollen, a gash at the top of the bruise held by fine thread stitching like a precious little doll. Lips that should be swollen from kissing, cut and bruised by violence.

His eyes darted, senses flaring, cataloging the damage. A hard blow on the side of the head, it would have dazed the young man, made the rest easy. Arms and legs scraped and bruised, the lithe body curled into a ball, attempting to protect the more vulnerable, softer parts as it was subjected to repeated impacts, kicks or the swing of some blunt weapon. Blows to the back were harder to defend against. The attacker had to have shown some restraint, or perhaps was not very strong. It would not take much force to crush that delicate spine instead of only fracturing ribs.

“Demon . . .”

The whisper was nearly lost as the shield crackled, then screamed, lines of white lightning trying to reach him. He had not even been aware, stepping into the air to get closer, now standing inches from the barrier at eye level with the startled, fascinated, terrified human. He knew what he would look like, the euphoria of pure rage would have his sharp teeth bared in a lunatic grin, eyes glowing like stars, acidic yellow bleeding over the black. And if he was pissed enough, which he certainly believed he was, his skin would be bleaching white by now, the dark scales accenting first the hands and unseen feet, then around the eyes and neck, down his spine, hair lengthening to trail down his back, claws long and black.

Tingling pain became more intense, pain that connected them, the air sizzling as his hand pressed closer, right palm flat and pushing his energy against the barrier. It was agony, not being able to touch the injured skin. One inch more, a high screech from the barrier, a flinch from the boy, a dark sea of horror and fear drawing him in. His fears of having the boy taken from him so close to actualization.

Someone else had touched his fierce, fragile little soul. _And he could not_. Someone else had bruised that supple skin, someone else had breathed deep the scent of sweet blood and tears. _Some low, worthless human had invaded his dreams._

“Don't. Don't do this.”

The boy struggled to stand and he growled in warning, but his Toshiro did not flee as expected, taking a shaky step forward, small left hand raising, reaching out the window toward his hand, the energy sparking in the intolerably vast empty space between them.

“Ichigo, stop.”

The quiet voice was calm, almost commanding, and his growl softened as he listened. Listened to the words of his human.

“The barrier, Ichigo. It's hurting you. It will kill you. Making me watch you die may be fair punishment, but I ask you not to do it. Back away, Ichigo. _Please_.”

He had never wanted his Toshiro to see this face directed at him, the bloodlust, the narrow fangs, the razor talons flexing with the need to rend. Perhaps in the final moments he would show the boy his ancient form, one last, parting gift for the insatiable mind. Yet twice now he had shown a glimpse of what a human would call a monster, and still this human did not run. And now, it came to him as he sank into shimmering turquoise, the brave little soul was not afraid of him. Well, not unreasonably afraid. The raw terror he tasted was not fear of him, but fear _for him_.

He did not back away. Neither did the delectable boy, though there was a gasp at the sound of his voice. Even quiet and wondering it sounded maniacal, bubbling like the dying breath choked with blood and laughter.

“What punishment, sweet one?”

He envisioned the tips of his talons stroking the one still perfect cheek as the damaged one was hidden, the boy looking away and down.

“Punishment for allowing another to hurt me.”

The unexpected flood of gratification, possessiveness, _hunger_ tore a groan from deep within. One pretty, flawless eye turned back to him, and he growled again as the purpled eyelid obscuring the other bright gem came back into view. He calmed himself, looking away from the bruising, staring at their hands so far apart and so close, and wondered if the boy was striking blindly with such profound words, of if he had badly underestimated the child's ability to seduce.

Drawing deep breaths, he watched the arcs of white energy angrily striking out at him, black and red flesh healing as fast as another bolt tore tiny holes through his skin. This barrier could fall, he could tear it apart. But it would cost, perhaps enough to kill him. His eyes sought Toshiro's trying not to clench against the bright light, gaze locked on him with a will that grounded him, calmed him. He waited until he was certain his voice was steady, soothing and beautiful for his Toshiro. Claws retracted, teeth reformed, skin took on the hues of life. Beautiful for his Toshiro, who watched the changes avidly.

“Was this you, my Toshiro? Did you seek out and ask for this? Why would I hurt you?”

A quiet laugh at that.

“Why would you hurt me? Seriously? Your entire purpose here is to hurt me. I can feel your anger, Ichigo. It doesn't take a genius to know that you would kill me now if you could. Not only for pleasure though, but to destroy that which was damaged by another and so is no longer perfect and yours. I . . . I'm sorry. I could say that it wasn't my fault, that I tried to escape. But the fact is that I could have done something to prevent it. And then you wouldn't be ready to kill yourself for the chance to kill me.”

Destroy that which was damaged? No, he did not want to destroy, not his perfect Toshiro, his Toshiro so far beyond the reach of common souls that they could never truly damage the diamond brilliance beneath the lovely and fragile form.

“Come to me. One step forward, my brave soul, my wounded soul, and I will take all the pain away. No more choices, no more worries. I promise.”

“No.” He did not expect the boy to comply, but the flash of hurt as the small hand that had stretched toward him dropped was payment enough for now.

“Give me your hand. Only a touch and I can heal your wounds.”

“No.” The broken lips curved in a shallow smile, yet another surprise, and he smiled tenderly back, so pleased with the indomitable spirit.

“Tell me who dared lay a harsh hand on you, my lovely Toshiro. Tell me so that I can deliver the punishment you expect.”

“No.”

He took a step back, let his arm fall, watching the ripples as the gathered power trying to reach him faded back into the menacing dome. He did not need his Toshiro to tell him; he could smell the doomed man beyond the acrid stench of his own burnt skin, beyond the addictive aroma of his prey's blood. The repulsive scent was lingering not on the boy, but on clothing somewhere in the house soaked in his Toshiro's blood, his keen senses finding the evidence he could not see.

The boy did not stink of his assailant, had bathed, smelling of soap and herbs. It would have been difficult. He pictured it, skin pale and streaked in crimson, setting off the darkening patches perfectly, careful movements, wincing as water touched open cuts and traumatized skin, warming and uncomfortably stretching bruised muscles. Then he imagined his own hand easing the boy to lean back against his chest as he rested in the water behind and around the lean body, his lips lingering on discolored flesh, his fingers running through thick white locks tenderly as he lifted clear water and poured warmth down, earning a relieved sigh. Taller now, and elevated on his lap, the young man's head would be even with his, so that when it rolled back the white hair would brush silk against his shoulder, swan neck fully exposed and bent back to invite his lips and teeth.

Why would he envision such a scene of tenderness? He was more than satisfied, or so he thought, with the constant dream of the remarkable eyes soaked in pain, growing dark and glazed as the light left the pretty gems, his to keep forever. But he could not deny the appeal of it, vacillating between fantasies of life and death with his easy way of accepting change as it came. The imperfection with his little reverie, he should know the story of each streak of red that he washed away, each inch of injured skin. For in the perfect dream, every mark would be his, caused by his hands alone. No other would ever touch his Toshiro.

No matter. The cursed hands that had touched his lovely prey would never soil him again.

“For one who was so apologetic seconds ago, you certainly have no trouble denying me simple requests.”

“Is it only that you consider me your property? Or are you angry that you were not here to stop it? Does it frighten you, the thought that I might have been killed? Just what are you thinking, demon?”

“Oh,” he looked back with a crooked grin, “it's back to _demon_ again, is it? You would not like my thoughts, human.”

The boy turned, pulling the chair to the window with a muffled grunt. He watched a wince, so similar to that brief vision, as the tender body was eased into the chair, right arm wrapped tight around damaged ribs.

“Fair enough if you don't want to tell me. Do not pretend it is to spare my feelings.”

“Make no mistake, you are my property, human, you are my prey. If another predator takes you down, that is the way of nature. And if I raze this city in retribution, well, that is my nature. I confess to envy, something quite new for me. The scent of another inhuman creature on you was bad enough. It is intolerable, completely unacceptable that a mere human gave you such wounds. You bruise quite magnificently, my dearest, as I knew you would. But I did not paint your skin so beautifully, so yes, I am angry that I was not there. I envy and hate the man who was so undeservedly blessed.”

The nights were gone which such a truth made the boy visibly flinch, and no doubt the human believed the suffering to be well-hidden. His words still cut deep, though at the same time the sentiments soothed the lonely soul and aroused the sensitive body. These were the only wounds he could inflict, the only lasting impression of himself he could leave on the boy. It helped, refocusing his scattered thoughts, assuring him that the touch he was denied was not their only connection.

“Those are not my only thoughts. I wonder how you would taste. Always, always I wonder this, but what I imagine has changed. Instead of the desire to tear into your lovely, sweet throat, I think of what flavors I would discover as I lick your heaving chest until it is red under my tongue and you beg me to never stop. I used to imagine how those shining eyes would darken as the light left them. Now I picture them darkening in pleasure as we sit in a deep, hot bath, washing your hair as your head rests on my shoulder, your fragile body safe on my thighs and leaning back, skin on slippery skin, warmer than the water. You would sigh softly, your lovely eyes drifting shut as I lift handfuls of water to rinse those silky strands.”

Already the boy's eyes were wide, pained breaths quickening. So sensitive, so ripe, and his own blood raced in response, his voice dropping to a low melody of desire. He was a victim of his own game, thirsting for Toshiro as for rain in the desert.

“Your hair is silky, isn't it, Toshiro? Such delicate spider strands tickling my lips as I nuzzle the back of your neck, bared willingly before me. I would be so disappointed if my imagination is misleading me. And between your perfect, pale legs, is that hair white and soft? Would it feel like down against my cheek? I think it is sweet and I think it is fragrant and the palest moonlit silver and delightful to tug with my teeth.”

If that piece-of-shit human had learned the answers to his questions, if his pure, perfect Toshiro had been violated on a deeper level, nothing would have stopped him from having the offender's head this night. He could not break the barrier without risking his own life, but there were ways and ways to destroy.

“Your siren voice is lower now, deeper, sexier; I could cum just from your soft lips whispering pleas in my ear. I hear your moans, your gasps and sighs, such lovely sounds that you gift to me, louder and higher and more impassioned as I take you, ravish you, revel in you. The screams I hear in my dreams are not of agony, not anymore. Hot screams that make my blood boil, make me want to drive you mad with ecstasy, my beauty, my Toshiro.”

“Stop.”

A breathless whisper. Small fingers were clutching the arm of the chair, one hand still holding ribs, too tightly, using the pain to try to stop the other, more pleasant discomfort. Oh, he could feel it, that swelling heat, making the kissable thighs shift and chafe. Brave soul, the dilated eyes still held his own.

“Would you call my name in dulcet tones? Or would you curse the demon who made you lose control so blissfully? And it would be bliss, little one, Heaven such as no human's god could ever give you. And you would beg for more, shaking beneath me, pulling me closer, and we would . . .”

“Stop!”

“. . . move as one, locked together so tightly, so closely, two halves of one whole for eternity. _Toshiro,_ my sweet, my own, _come to me_.”

The boy lunged for the window. For one golden moment, he thought his human would jump, exchange the short and torturous life for a long and rapturous death. Instead he was treated to the nearly as great delight of snarling teeth, bright white streaked with brighter red, split lip reopened, the fire of fury added to the heady scent of arousal as small hands clenched tight to the window sill.

“Enough, you vile creature! It will never happen. The very idea disgusts me, and I will not hear such words from a demon or anyone. You will _never_ touch me!”

Slight frame shaking, face red where it was not blackened, good eye narrowed as the breath hissed between clenched teeth of pearl and ruby, it would be quite believable to a normal observer. Oh, yes, the very picture of outrage, angry enough to push through intense pain to confront the source of offense. He sighed through parted, smiling lips, head tilting back, eyes half closed, nearly drowning in the lust he had kindled in them both.

“You have been misleading, deceitful, but this is the first time you have ever lied to me, my sweet.”

His smile fell when the heavy shutters slammed shut, the boy's agony at the physical effort hitting him like a savage blow, the pain no longer pleasing him. As stimulating as tonight's conversation had been, it was not worth the damage his Toshiro had suffered at the hands of a human. His Toshiro who could have sat back and watched as his rage drove him to his death. His Toshiro who could easily have been free tonight, the demon hunting him reduced to nothing but a pile of ash. His Toshiro who begged him not to challenge the barrier, begged him not to allow himself to be destroyed because his very own prey could not stand the thought of his destruction.

He would worry later about how to prevent such a thing from happening to Toshiro again. The very real possibility of coming through the gate to find his prize had been taken from him made him long for something to kill very, very slowly. And he knew exactly who he wanted.

 

oooooooOOOOOooooooo

 

It was difficult to not simply collapse there at the window, more difficult to pass up the bed nearby. He forced himself to move, hurting almost as badly as he had been there in the narrow alley, tossed out the back door of the shop like so much trash. What he wanted was to run, far from this house, far from that window, out into the center of town where he would not even be able to see the walls. Running down the street in the middle of the night would do wonders for his already poor reputation; they would probably hunt him down as a demon. What a relief that would be.

One yelp of pain as he stumbled into the wall, and he made it down the hall to the windowless room with the small futon where he spent many nights. The firm pallet on the hard floor was not welcoming as he tried to ease down and ended up falling onto his side on the barely yielding surface.

His second pained cry turned into a sob. He knew the demon would hear. He could hear the demon’s voice clearly anywhere in the house, so there was no reason to think the demon couldn’t hear him break down like a child. But for once he didn’t care, couldn’t care. It hurt too badly to try, though the clenching of muscles as he let himself weep was not helping. He had not cried since the night his mother died, wasn’t even sure that he could anymore. It took a severe beating followed by a more severe torture session with his demon to prove him wrong.

Trying to think of nothing, he stared at the floor and the wall, the shelves and stacks of books, huddled as tight as his ribs would allow and waited for the sobs to dissolve into simple tears, chest aching, head aching, everything, everything aching. Good. This was a good thing. Everyone needs to let sorrow out sometimes, and the body’s pain often brings tears whether we will it or not. His mother had told him these things long ago, the first time his false friend had hurt him. His mother never lied.

The demon was right about that, Toshiro had lied. It did disgust him. Not the demon's words, not the delicious images conjured in his mind, but his weakness in the face of such a crude temptation, so base and yes, downright vile to think something so simple could nearly break his will after dealing with the demon for years. _How stupid could he be?_ He lied when he lashed out at the demon . . . at Ichigo. He did not find Ichigo vile, he truly didn’t. It wasn’t the demon who was the disgusting one in this twisted relationship. The creature was only honest to his nature.

And himself? He could not be honest to his nature for he had no idea what that nature was. He didn’t think humans were built that way, and at the moment he sincerely wished they were. It would be much easier, he thought, if there was some sense of destiny or a strong set of instincts that could pass as such. When he had first met the demon, he had chosen a destiny and tried to stick to it. He would learn all he could about the demon and his kind, fill the woeful gaps in human understanding. Even if it cost him his life, as it almost surely would.

His blurry eyes went to the books, the ones he had made himself out of materials bought and traded for. One was nearly filled with questions, musings, reminders of things he wanted to learn, and he would come back to that book between the demon’s visits, add new questions, mark out the ones he had resolved. Other books were filled with every word he could remember from each exchange, as detailed as he could manage, right down to a raw account of his reactions.

And then the more refined text, a large tome carefully planned, painstakingly written. _Of Demons_ , a growing body of knowledge distilled from years of conversation. How demons came to be, how they evolved through classes of power to the pinnacle, the Vasto Lorde. He recorded the powers he had observed or been told of with reason to believe. The timetable of appearances that had impressed Urahara, the partial knowledge of gates. And so much more.

His legacy. It was worth it. _It had to be_.

An hour had passed, maybe longer. Was Ichigo still out there? Of course he was, the damned demon. Probably still had that ridiculously sexy expression on his face, lips that spilled sin like honey smiling, piercing eyes unfocused as the demon delved into Toshiro's most guarded dreams and laid them bare. It had been horrific. It was wonderful. And though he knew it was merely the finest temptation the demon had yet laid at Toshiro's feet, it awakened a new pain of hope that he may, even if only for a little while, have the honor of touching and tasting the demon before his death.

He would only have one night free this time if the timetable held. Long enough, he hoped, to sort out this new mess in his head. Damn human lust, anyway. That’s what he’d blame it all on, frail human body and the death of reason that came to make life a living hell as an initiation to adulthood, then lingered, turning men into nothing but tomcats howling for a mate. It was no wonder humanity was nothing but prey with such glaring vulnerabilities.

One of the first things he’d had to do was find a way to deal with the sinister threats of the demon, the way Ichigo would casually speak of the joy he would gain from something horrific like peeling the skin from Toshiro’s back, or scooping out his eyes to preserve and set as pendants. The thought of that kind of suffering was manageable now, though it took its toll. Repressed fear came to haunt his dreams, and it became rare to sleep without waking in a cold sweat.

But the idea of the demon, the creature he could not stop himself from finding fascinating, getting pleasure from his death and pleasure from the fear of death he caused, that had been harder to deal with. He would not have lasted this long if he had not found a way to build a sort of mental barrier, letting the damage of the demon’s words flow though him so that it was accepted and could not come back to haunt him, yet keeping his emotions in check, reducing the scarring as much as possible until he became accustomed to it.

Sometimes, late at night when his nightmares took strange turns, he wondered if he had succeeded too well. Sometimes, when he would wake with the phantom pain of being slowly tortured and killed, he found himself smiling, thinking more of the pleasure on the dream-demon’s face than his own screams.

Could he do the same with this new danger? Find a way to channel the out-of-control response to the demon’s seductions? He would have to. The only alternative was trying to escape, shutting the window, such a lie, an empty gesture to keep the demon out. Only, he was not sure he could shut Ichigo out anymore. He did not want to.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, made Kusaka a villain again. I'll never forgive him.  
> Never had a story get to 100 kudos. So close. Sooooooo cloooose


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, thank you, thank you!! First of my stories to 100 kudos, made my day, my week!!

The small city, large town, dirty overgrown village full of _ignorant and shallow humans_ with small souls that weren’t even worth the time to kill when they stumbled right into you let alone worth chasing for fear you might catch some _filthy parasite_ just from eating them if you could even choke down the _flabby unwashed flesh_ . . . the small city had never been of much interest to Ichigo. He had observed it disinterestedly as it formed and grew in the wake of the second war, occasionally taking an easy meal on his way from the gate to places more appealing.

When he had stepped into this world and been nearly driven to his knees by the overwhelming despair of an immensely powerful soul, he had not believed the source could be here. But his nose and his stomach had led him to the remote town and to his Toshiro. He had enough sense of time now to know that it had been years lingering in the forest, then years outside one window, every night he was able, nearly every moment he was able except for the recent time he had spent rescuing his fledgling and failing to get vengeance.

Years. According to his human, eight years, the time it takes for a child barely able to fend for itself to become an independent youth in the first, faint, frail blush of manhood.

There were no other souls of interest here. Some with a small spark, enough to draw lesser predators. But none to draw his eye except his Toshiro, and now one other. A dulled glimmer of power, this one could have been of interest if nurtured properly. Only it was not. Stale, boring, stagnated in a life without ambition. This one had spent his days pursuing shallow pleasures, more interested in self-aggrandizement than self-awareness, any potential greatness buried early and deeply.

He had no connection to this one and did not want to touch the spoiled, mediocre soul more than necessary, extending his senses just enough to learn what he needed to know. This one lived closer to the center of town. He was more than powerful enough to call out to the bastard. Weak and unprepared as the youth was, it would not take much persuading to have the human walk out of the city and to his death. No, this one would not put up much of a fight, would not intrigue him enough to be worth a moment of his time. He did not want to call out, the idea of any deeper contact repulsive.

He turned his attention away from the city. His Toshiro was safe for the night, in excruciating pain both physical and emotional, but as safe as usual, which was not very safe at all. The usual conflicting desires were roiling in Ichigo's mind, cherish and protect, torment and break, heal and comfort, rend and savor. Yet for each wave of pleasure brought on by the scent of tears, the heart he'd never thought he had was torn anew by a muffled sob. It was intolerable.

Meanwhile, the walking dead man was asleep and content with the damage he had inflicted on one who should never have been troubled by those filthy hands, unaware that in hurting Toshiro he had injured a creature that human nightmares couldn't comprehend. For the first time since that wondrous night full of death and despair when he had left Toshiro and found Grimmjow, for the first time since he had begun to understand that every goal he thought was vital meant nothing, he turned away from the town and sought out other souls in this world.

Perhaps it was long ago, it still seemed recent. Time was tangible to him now, but ever elusive. The humans of this world, like many others, had attempted to fight his kind. More than once, as it happened, with the most recent efforts fairly fresh in his memory. In this part of this world, humans had organized to the best of their limited ability and engaged in what they called the Demon Wars. The first war had been apocalyptic, a species convinced of its superiority coming to violent and bloody terms with a truth they'd never dreamed of. The second war had shattered the humans of this world, leaving a civilization fragmented into a few strongholds of resistance while the majority settled into the role of prey.

Fun, it had been such great fun! Groups of foot soldiers sacrificed to delay the deaths of military leaders, all full of conviction in their calling to defend God's Children from the wrath of the Evil One, whoever that was. The lower creatures glutted themselves, the abundance of prey temporarily suspending the drive to kill one another, creating an image of a unified Hollow army where one did not exist. And the dark army had its generals, the fledglings and the Lordes were drawn to the chaos and the slaughter, drawn out of the vast desert to cross over, to feast, and hordes trailed behind each one like packs of hyenas on the heels of a lion, eager for the scraps.

This world's golden age ended in blood. The greatest mages, the fiercest demon-hunters, the highest princes walked into the night to do battle and fell into the arms of his kindred. He remembered the best of them, the holy warrior with a soul burnt by the intensity of faith, the hunter-mage that tore a hole through his guts before his claws found her throat. Had he not already achieved the ultimate evolution, those wars would have brought him all the power he needed to lose his mask and gain his title. Many of his fellows perished, many gained more power in a handful of nights than they would have in time immeasurable. _Such fun_.

It was during those wars that he became aware of the humans he was going to seek out now. Human may be a stretch, but that is how they began their existence, before being altered and empowered by mages, infused with the essences of his kind, the very strongest the mages could acquire. Meant to be weapons against the Hollow, the twisted humans did what all somewhat sane creatures did when tortured, they turned against their creators, shredding them in an insane fury of revenge. Being manipulated from the time you were in the womb would do that.

What they were now, these custom-designed demon killers, was something less and more than human. Strong, very long-lived, intelligent, their kind thrived. Only a handful existed, the intentions to create an army of such creatures ended with the deaths of the great mages at the hands and claws of their twisted children. They stayed in the shadows, though capable of appearing completely human, even capable of passing through barriers and walking through traps despite being hybrids of human and his own kind. Ironically, they survived and grew stronger by devouring human souls, the same as the creatures they had been created to destroy.

Allies they were not. But Ichigo had their payment, coin made of captured souls, more than enough to hire them a hundred times over. They would do his dirty work. They would fetch the walking corpse from the city so that he did not need to touch the repulsive mind. And punishment would be delivered.

 

oooooooOOOOOooooooo

 

Ideally, he would have stayed home until all signs of injury were gone, until most of the wounds were fully healed. He had responsibilities now, clients that expected him, meals to prepare for the old lady. He had bought himself one day, paying the neighbor to have his kids run notes around town claiming Toshiro had a cold He spent that day with the old lady to quell her fears and help treat a nasty cough that she was suffering from, listening to her chatter to keep his mind off other things. The days were unpleasant, helped only by the fact that the dry-goods store was a once a week stop. He would cut ties, but he did not want to explain to a somewhat decent man that his son had beat him nearly to death. The visible marks should be faded enough to cover with cosmetics before the week was up.

The night, on the other hand, was hard to bear. He knew he was alone; he told himself that he wanted nothing more than to be alone. Yet his thoughts drifted, when normally he could focus easily, block out everything except work. He found himself looking over his shoulder, jumping at every small sound, and more than once had the lantern in hand and was halfway out of his chair before he stopped himself from walking to his old bedroom to look out the window.

But the worst was when he laid down to sleep. His usual routine allowed five or six hours for sleep, after the morning's business in town, before making and delivering dinner and then coming home to his desk. The first day after . . . gods, what could he even call it? The argument, the seduction, he had no idea what the fuck to even think about it. And it was all he could think about once he stopped, once he tried to relax.

For two days he barely slept, getting back up and working until he was too exhausted to think. He knew that he couldn't continue, and the demon was due back in a matter of hours. The only possible solution that had come to mind was to accept these new feelings the way he had accepted fear and the hopelessness that came with being downgraded to an animal, a choice and desirable slab of meat, apparently, but just a meal all the same. If he could accomplish this it would not take away the power of the demon's words, but it would make it easier to hear the demon without letting simple words take away his ability to reason.

Ever since his body started to respond to the demon, ever since the sultry glances and taunting innuendos had awakened more than just curiosity, Toshiro had fantasized about Ichigo. It was a defense, of sorts, to bring himself to climax a few hours before sunset on demon nights, and it had worked, calming his body enough to get through an encounter with the demon without being betrayed too overtly by his own hormones. Yet he knew his imagination was shallow in this area. Not so much anymore, after the demon had detailed a fantasy more complex and more real than any his inexperienced body needed – no, he managed to cum just teasing himself with phantom kisses and a few blushing thoughts of bare skin rubbing against him.

He took the time to heat water, lugging pails from the stove to the bath which he rarely bothered to do except in winter. He didn't really mind the cold, and he came out just as clean either way. He only managed enough to warm the water a little, his ribs causing too much pain to continue. By the time he had taken off his clothes, folded and set aside, sucking in a breath as water reached healing cuts, he was already aroused by memories he had been suppressing, sinking into fantasy as he sank into the lukewarm water.

So many words, not one ever leaving his mind. He knew he had to face them, the words and images he could not forget and the feelings they evoked. The first time he saw the demon, just after he lost the dragon, he had stared at the unexpected mystery, so perfectly attractive, his young mind not really understanding any risk beyond the obvious threat of violence. To now, the velvet voice a poor substitute for the long fingers he had never felt, the promise of that mouth that tore his shallow reality apart not tearing into him but worshiping him, proving that he did contain that divine light the demon was irresistibly drawn to.

It was one image that haunted him as he let his knees fall to either side of the tub, the light brush of water against sensitive skin just as he imagined warm breath might feel. The picture of being held as Ichigo described, propped on those strong thighs, leaning back in the heat of the water to rest against the firm muscles, soft in relaxation. In his fantasy, the demon's hands did not pour water into his hair, instead wrapping tight around him, pulling him close.

How sick was he? He could not help but ask as he tried to replace illusory hands with his own, too small, drifting from his sore ribs down. He did not condemn himself for sexual desire, even in response to a demon. Nor did he pause to worry about the fact that it took only a few touches and the memory of filthy words to have his cock harden. It was his fantasy itself, the weakness that it exploited that disgusted him. The only affection he had known in his life was the affection of mother and child, the old lady who insisted on hugging, and he knew very well why, and she was right to think he needed some positive interaction. A child with no friends, no family, the beating he had taken was the most human contact he'd had in over five years.

But Ichigo wanted him. And that's where reality and fantasy twisted. Every thought of being held by the demon came with the knowledge that Ichigo still wanted to kill him. It should be as repulsive as he told himself it was, as distasteful he had told Ichigo it was. It was not. Even as he vividly recalled the incomparable cruelty of the fledgling demon's death, the bliss on his demon's face as he bit into the hot heart . . . it was far from repulsive.

_Such delicate spider strands tickling my lips as I nuzzle the back of your neck, bared willingly before me._

It should not be possible to be so turned on by such a vulgar temptation, to want to surrender to a creature that might give an adoring kiss one second and rip open your throat with the next touch of lips to skin. But the throbbing length in his hands said otherwise, the pleasure beginning to smother his senses proved otherwise. His fingers tightened, wondering if he would ever know the touch he was now imagining. Ichigo's hands, so much larger, so skilled at dealing death, how amazing that would feel.

_And between your perfect, pale legs, is that hair white and soft? Would it feel like down against my cheek?_

Fingertips drifted down into that very hair as hips shifted, pushing up repeatedly into the remaining hand despite the pain each flexion of his abdomen sent through his ribs and other tender bruises. Gods, _Ichigo's face between his legs_ , that wicked tongue exploring where such wickedness belonged, teeth tugging as promised, pulling as his fingers did now, surprised to find that sharp pinch of tender skin a wonderful contrast to the overwhelming sensations. He would never have conjured such images, would never have thought of such acts. The sloshing of water against his chest became fingers reaching up and drifting over his skin, head pressing back over the edge of the tub with a moan that echoed in the small room.

_I could cum just from your soft lips whispering pleas in my ear. I hear your moans, your gasps and sighs, such lovely sounds . . ._.

What would it sound like, Ichigo's voice moaning like his, lost in lust like his? Oh, that luscious, throaty moan as the red muscle of the slain enemy was devoured. The deep hum of pleasure when Ichigo had drawn in the scent from the pendant Toshiro had made. That was all it took to drive his body over the edge, every muscle tensing as his back arched, a stabbing pain from fractured bones only sharpening the ecstasy of release. He shouted at the ceiling, eyes open but vision blurred like his thoughts, only the bliss spreading from his mind and his groin into every part of him as his body convulsed and shook until relaxing and sinking back into soiled warmth.

_And it would be bliss, little one, Heaven such as no human's god could ever give you. And you would plead for more . . ._.

He needed to accept this. And not as he had so far, as a challenge, a physical reaction caused by the demon deliberately to bait him. He needed to accept that this was what he wanted. It wasn't shameful. He was not wrong to want such a creature, nor to want the dangerous feelings that accompanied the lust for that creature. It was the only way he could move on without driving himself insane with self-loathing. And for what? To lie to himself, to deny that what he felt for Ichigo had far more layers than simple lust?

The only orgasms of his short, lonely, pathetic life were brought on by dreams of a demon. But when he thought about the people he knew, the children he grew up with who were, he supposed, his pool of candidates for intimate relations, he could not bring himself to feel any shame for falling in love with a demon instead.

 

oooooooOOOOOooooooo

 

Time was becoming of interest to Ichigo. He could not say how long he had existed, but he could say with certainty that he had never been this entertained. Not the wars in this world or any other, not the intriguing enemies of his other favorite worlds, not watching human civilizations rise and fall, not one of the many spectacular souls that were now part of him had kept his interest this long. And it didn't seem like it would stop anytime soon.

Fortunately, his fledgling had sought him out in the wastelands. Hours and hours of fucking had been required before he could even clear his thoughts of his obsession. And the big cat was again a little more aware, a little more capable of withstanding the pressure of Ichigo’s presence, and it was more satisfying than he had ever imagined. They had hunted together after the first long session, and Grimmjow kept up with him by setting lose his enhanced form, leaner, faster, wilder. The tail, the long hair, it was all he could do to finish the hunt before devouring the man again and again.

Time was on their side, the gates far from alignment with the only human world he wished to visit, the fledgling’s pack fending for themselves. He was able to give the youngling more power, push until the big cat could take no more, then hold and soothe through the adjustment as instinct demanded.

And this time, Grimmjow allowed it. Oh, the fledgling still bristled when regaining awareness to find himself curled up and purring with his head on Ichigo's stomach, being petted and stroked. But then the big cat recalled they were alone, no other would dare come within miles of the Vasto Lorde's aura that pressed lightly on him from all sides like a warm blanket wrapped tight. Then the electric eyes would glaze again, purring would resume, and Ichigo would smile.

He found himself enjoying this closeness, even knowing that one word or action could bring out his kitty's claws and ruin the brief union of two predators. It was as close to affection as two of their kind ever achieved. He would not have believed it possible before Starrk; Grimmjow no doubt would not have believed it possible before him. Someday, perhaps once they'd caught the one who had nearly taken Grimm from him and he had the pleasure of watching his fledgling devour the bastard's power, the Vasto Lorde born of this would find his own fledgling. Someday, Grimmjow might experience what it was to nurture and protect rather than destroy, the very strange strength gained from feeling a connection beyond one of survival.

Thanks to his fledgling, he could approach Toshiro with a clear head, lust quelled like banked coals ready to blaze but under control for the moment. His mind was working on a truly complex problem. How could he coax his Toshiro into his arms? He had not truly tried for many nights, years perhaps, teasing and tempting but not driving the human. Impossible to convince the boy now that he longed for nothing more than to hold and possess, to protect and revere. Impossible after years of making it clear that the human was destined for a terrible, beautiful, bloody end by his hands and teeth. Impossible when he was certain of his devotion, but uncertain of his ability to resist instinct.

The window was open. Had anyone asked him, he would have said with confidence that the boy would shut him out for at least one night, likely several. He also expected continued anger, shame, confusion, all the negative emotions his fragile human used to bury what could be beautiful, lust and pleasure and surrender. That was not what he felt. Not quite the familiar thrum of calm concentration, but close. His Toshiro was reading, thoughts focused not too intently, leaving room for that adorable nervous anticipation.

He had wondered if he would ever feel that again after his words that were, he admitted, too sharp and shocking. But it was there, the innocent longing at his approach. It was a feeling he enjoyed, even if it caused him some confused amusement to have his prey greet him with something bordering on affection. It was a feeling he would have missed, as he was realizing he would miss so many things about his Toshiro. Though Ichigo now wished to see the young man live a long life, the human was still a human. Someday, very soon in his eyes, the young mortal would be gone. It was a strange concept. He had memories, fond and otherwise, of events, hunts, wars, but to foresee a future regret, he would not have thought of such a thing before finding this delicious little soul.

“Good evening, Ichigo.”

The boy turned away from his books with the customary greeting, and his complicated thoughts made way for a renewal of anger. The bruises were better and worse, healing being a hideous process in humans, pretty blacks, reds, and purples turning to sallow green and yellow, dark center faded to rust, colors not at all pleasing. The filthy human who had harmed his Toshiro would have been wise to die. But he cheered at that thought, for he had already sensed that his hired help was on the move, heading for this horrid city quickly to carry out his orders. Yes, their next night together would be interesting indeed.

“Good evening, my sweet. I must say, I'm pleased you are willing to spend time with me tonight. You are not still angry with me for saying such disgusting things to you?”

That cute little smirk could drive him mad. The clever human had once again brought himself off, almost certainly to thoughts of Ichigo, in hopes of staving off desire. Only an hour ago by the scent, and he wondered, not for the first time, what the boy looked like in the throes of orgasm. How well this strategy worked for the boy, he would find out in due time. Tonight, he wanted peace between them. It wouldn't do to ruin the work of years just for the admittedly fabulous thrill of teasing his Toshiro about self-pleasure.

“About that. I need to apologize, Ichigo. It was wrong of me to lash out that way, to judge you as I would a human.”

The boy may have intended to say more, but he could hold back no longer. A second of shocked silence at the word _apologize_ , the next sentence even more surprising, and he threw his head back as genuine laughter rang through the night. There was just no end to it, how this human could surprise and delight, how this soul could survive and evolve. He could feel the genuine remorse, followed by vexation and amusement, even affection in warm thoughts that tasted so rich and comforting. His Toshiro was far rarer than a great soul, far more precious than that divine light his kind were always seeking.

“Damned demon.”

Pausing at that exasperated whisper, he looked to see the boy with one elbow on the windowsill, unbruised cheek propped on the heel of his hand, and the most beatific mild smile on the lips still accented by two deep cuts. Laughter redoubled, so delighted by the astonishment this little soul awakened in him time and again that he had to clutch at his stomach, gasping for breath.

Toshiro watched, irritated and embarrassed because he knew he was the object of Ichigo's amusement, but too enchanted to care. The demon was beautiful, the dispassionate façade, if that's what the usual aloofness was, discarded in favor of an action almost innocent. There was nothing sinister, nothing mocking or disparaging in the unrestrained, almost joyful laughter. He chuckled softly as he watched the demon double over, hands leaning weight on knees, starting to regain control. And he let the warmth of his pleasure settle within, refusing to deny how precious this was.

“This time, I will not ask you what you are thinking.”

“Well, who knew humans could be taught?”

Oh, that smile. He had rarely seen the demon smile without some darkness, without glee at causing pain. Or that wide, sneering grin that lingered in his nightmares, too wide, too many sharp teeth. He shook the memory away to enjoy the moment before it was gone. Likely, there was some twisted enjoyment underlying the smile and the laugh, some perverse triumph at hearing him say he was the one who was sorry and absolving the demon. Likely, he was too deluded, too infatuated to see the truth anymore, only seeing the picture of happiness, an emotion he doubted the demon was capable of.

“I have something for you, something to make you laugh again.”

The square book caused a ripple in the barrier as he threw it, grunting as bruised ribs were pulled by the effort to make sure it made it to the demon who casually caught it. The smile lingered, and an orange brow arched as the book was examined.

“ _The Exorcising of_ _Demons_ , pretentious title.”

“Indeed. Were you aware of the danger you were in? According to that book, had I thrown one of many religious texts you would have burst into flames just from touching it.”

The demon did laugh again, more controlled but still seemingly honest, and he soaked in the sound with pleasure that dulled the pain in his side.

“I am surprised you haven’t tried that, clever one, many have. I keep a collection of holy icons that have been tossed at me. Various herbs and incenses are supposed to be quite effective, too. I can’t imagine why.”

“Yes, the book says sage will drive you away. Or I could throw salt on you, watch you shrivel up like some kind of slug.”

“An ironic twist, the human seasoning me for dinner.”

When they both chuckled at that, he mused again that something must very wrong with him to joke with a demon about such things when he knew quite well that Ichigo would be his death. Better than the alternative, traumatized and weeping in the closet. Better, too, than the slow fade that would have been his life had the demon not come, had the demon not stayed. He sighed, resigned to this bizarre, morbid reality where the only creature with which he wanted contact of any kind wanted to eat him.

“And what are you thinking, my sweet?”

“Oh, no, demon. You have always had the advantage in this contest. I’m not about to willingly give you any more weapons.”

Suddenly the atmosphere between them was tense, but he would not allow himself to regret the loss of the almost easy humor. The way those eerie eyes burned into him used to make him flinch. Now, he just contemplated how they seemed clearly visible even from a distance and in the dark, how he could see every detail of the swirling golden-yellow, even the black seeming to change, shades of darkness, heavy storm clouds in the night sky.

“I have a gift for you, as well, a weapon willingly given if you will take it.”

His heart thudded painfully, anticipating cruelty, seduction, or a new challenge he had yet to prepare for. Another very dark part of his own heart spoke to him, ignoring the dread that should be listened to, pushing aside the fear that screamed at him still from someplace far away. But the streak of excitement, the rush of adrenaline as he braced for battle against the demon and for battle against his own will, it was addictive.

“You have my attention.”

“Such a little lord, you are. It's all that reading. Ignorance is bliss, they say. If it weren't for your insatiable curiosity, you might not stand out so much. You might even be able to blend in with the unwashed masses, have a normal life.”

“Do you have a point?”

A little grin in return for his loss of temper, and he felt like he was back on solid ground. No unexpectedly friendly mirth, just a demon making a spiteful cut at his insecurities and showing satisfaction at getting a pained response.

“I know some of the things you have been trying to learn lately. It is hard to get quality reading material in a place like this.” The demon waved the ridiculous book in the air to illustrate the point. “We have had many good conversations, and I confess that I've enjoyed teaching such a bright and promising student. But I have more to offer than knowledge of the physical world and its wonders.”

His eyes narrowed, trying to see beyond the obvious trap. Knowledge had always been the demon's favorite bait. Getting him to listen was easy, all Ichigo had to do was tell him something, anything that might be remotely true. And he had learned much, about dozens of topics, corroborated as much as possible through the texts he had.

“What is it that you are offering?”

One black boot lifted, setting down on thin air. The last time he had been too startled by the rage of the demon to pay attention, the creature suddenly at eye level, levitating effortlessly three stories above the ground. Ichigo walked as if climbing perfectly solid stairs, no hint that there was any effort involved and he found himself leaning out the window again, staring at the demon's feet. The quiet chuckle drew his eyes up, the captivating eyes now so very close and his entire body yearned to touch.

“I'm offering . . . this.”

The demon stretched out his right hand and Toshiro waited to hear that familiar invitation. Then he sucked in and held his breath, eyes focused intently on the light, a blood red glow with a swirling darkness at its heart, dancing in the cup of the demon's palm. As he watched, the dark flame blazed into true fire of orange and yellow, then condensed and cooled into a four-pointed star of silver shedding blue-white light that turned into crystalline frost. His aching lungs forced him to let out an explosion of air, the frost melted, dark clouds roiling inches above the demon's dry skin, lightning and driving rain in a contained and miniature thunderstorm with tiny bolts of lightning striking the demon’s palm before the clouds blew away with a puff of wind.

“You're offering me magic?”

His voice was breathless, the world still, suspended in disbelief.

“You have been trying to learn on your own. You never will succeed, not without decent books or a teacher. A very wise human once told me that it only takes aptitude, opportunity, and experience. I'm offering to teach you, Toshiro.”

Thousands of possibilities spun through his mind, every fiber of his being leaping at the chance. He would know what no human knew, even the great mages could not know what a demon could teach. His plan to travel to Seireitei to learn this very skill would no longer be necessary, no humans to deny him the opportunity and lock the gates of knowledge on him, no lifetime of studying to learn an imperfect version of the demon's power.

Temptation. Ichigo had spent years getting him to this point, leaning out the window, almost trusting, ready to agree to anything. Clever demon, there must be a trap in this. Magic, there for the taking, taught by a Vasto Lorde of demons. It nearly crushed him to answer.

“No.”

Ichigo blinked, too confused this time to laugh at the unpredictable human. He could feel the burning desire for what he offered, stronger even than the physical craving they had shared. It was simply impossible that the boy would refuse.

“Pardon?”

“I said no, Ichigo. The demonstration was beautiful, though, thank you for that. If you don't have anything else you'd rather talk about, it reminded me of some questions I have about the properties of lightning.”

“Why?”

“Because it's basically pure energy. Seems a worthy topic, humans have been making attempts to harness it for centuries. Only mages have succeeded, and poorly so far.”

“You know that isn't what I'm asking. Why, foolish child, would you not want to learn what you call magic?”

“Why would you want to teach me? One such as you does not offer gifts for free. You admitted as much very early on, that even our seemingly innocent conversations were part of an exchange. Now, you grow impatient, or you see that the time is right to increase the pressure. I can give you nothing greater than my life and my soul, which you already claim, so what is your price? Or is it this?” The fine-boned hand raised to the ugly bruise. “You're worried about someone taking away your payment, so you throw temptation of the flesh at me one night and temptation of the mind at me the next, desperate to finish your hunt before I have the nerve to die by someone else's hand. What will you bring to tempt me next?”

His smile had grown while the boy spoke, though he dared not laugh, certain the boy would lose his temper and slam the window shut. Every word of that dignified little speech was locked into his memory, the boy was a marvel to think so brilliantly and to fight back at his age, in his circumstances. Humans generally lost the ability to see beyond the obvious when face to face with him, panic and the desperation to live making them grasp at any opportunity to survive. He had hunted renowned scholars who had not reasoned as well when tempted, mighty warriors who had not fought as hard when cornered. The turquoise eyes gave away little, but he felt the turmoil under a layer of determination.

“You misunderstand my motives, dear Toshiro. What you say makes perfect sense, I must admit, and I can't expect you to take my word for it. But here is the truth. You are mortal, defenseless, and very much alone. I would protect you if I could, and yes, that is partly a need to keep you alive until you give me what I want. But being trapped here to guard you night and day is not an option, and you are oh so vulnerable, my sweet. You are a bright child, reason that out.”

A sharp retort was due, but the parted lips closed, the determined expression morphing into one of contemplation.

“That is not all. Magic would be a weapon, as you say. One I would use against you, to keep you from the reward you seek. What are you trying to hide from me?”

“You wish me to say it, though you will call it a lie?”

The bright eyes moved, back and forth slowly, attempting to read his face like one of the hundreds of books. As if this man-child could hope to understand him. Yet he wanted to be understood by this one human, though he had little hope that such a dream would ever become reality.

“Yes. Definitely.”

“Then, I tell you now and I tell you sincerely that if I had you in my arms at this moment, I would do you no harm. I do not deny that I delight in stealing the lives of humans in a variety of pleasant and painful ways, nor do I deny the hunger for souls and the particular appeal of your own. My hunger for your death has been eclipsed by my hunger for your company. My desire to consume your soul has become a desire to see your soul grow ever brighter, ever darker. I long to know what your future holds. Believe this at least, I have never once thought of a human's future in any way.

“And yet I see that what I feared is true; you do not and never will see my truth.”

The boy stared, amazed and pissed off. He sighed in defeat, not that he ever expected Toshiro to take one word as honest. Words would not convince the human of his honesty, not now, not ever.

“Do you know, demon, I am tempted to believe you just because the lie is too weak to be a true effort to deceive. But you are right, I call it a lie. If this is your truth, I do not see it.”

He had held back, but anger surfaced as it always did in the face of defiance. This would become another fight, another point of contention between them. He would be banished again. His tone grew more and more disdainful as he made one more effort to convince the human.

“Then, Toshiro, accept what I can teach you for its own sake. Tell yourself that I teach you to prevent your death so that I can kill you myself. Stubborn child, you have no way to survive. You are too small to become a warrior, too adrift in an ignorant society to become a mage, too alone to call on the protection of your kind. And you are too ambitious to sit in this place, safe in your dark corner of the world. If you do not grasp at any possible power, then I must conclude that you are, in fact, nothing but another weak-willed coward, barely worth the effort to consume.”

The boy had carefully leaned back, his body advertising the impulse to flee but emotions confused and excited. The big eyes blinked slowly, a new expression, quiet and almost meek, almost submissive, and Ichigo’s hope rekindled.

“I . . . will think on it. Would you stay tonight if we only talk of small things?”

As close to an admittance of weakness as he had ever heard from his Toshiro, and he took gladly what was offered. The boy was startled into a small smile when he gracefully sat on air to stay at eye level, legs folded in front of him.

“Have I told you yet of the race of men on the other side of this world that live their entire lives in trees, most of them never touching the earth once?”

“No.” His curious little human pulled the chair to the window again from where it had been knocked aside. “Do they build homes in the branches? How do they get enough food and water?”

He could feel the lingering hurt reawaken in the small body with the physical effort of something as easy as moving a chair, so many wounds, the throbbing of the ribs not healing because the stubborn human would not simply rest. Soon. Their next night together. The one who dared cause his lovely Toshiro pain would pay a high price for every bruise.

 


	15. Chapter 15

It made him sick to think that this might be partly his fault. The old lady had been getting steadily weaker over the past few years, the decline ever more rapid with each passing month. So frail, but he could not recall the last time she was so ill, sometime when his mother was still alive. His own stock of medicines was, he quickly realized, not adequate. He had never had a fever, a cough, an illness. Thus, the things he made and bought were for treating injuries and soothing aches. He knew enough to mix herbs that could soothe the cough for a couple of days, ease the fever a bit, but both grew beyond his ability to control.

He tried the market first, hoping against the odds that Urahara would be there. The merchant dealt in medicines even more books. But the merchant only came to their remote town every three or four months, and hadn't returned since Toshiro had confronted the man and apparently driven him away.

He tried to get the healer to come, but the man refused even to step into the front of the shop to speak to him. Panicked, he had protested, shouting a plea at the closed door that it was for the old lady who had done the man no wrong. But in the end, the apprentice dragged him from the shop. Toshiro almost never fought back, but he was desperate and struggled. The apprentice was a big, stupid lout who would never be an effective healer, hands more suited to causing harm grabbing him bodily, forcing him out and slamming the door.

It could have been worse, he thought, as he knelt gasping in the dirt. The sickening crack when the healer’s apprentice had tightened his hold to haul Toshiro out into the street had sent waves of agony through him, and he vomited bile right there in front of ogling crowds like the wretched street dog they all thought he was, then staggered to his feet with no offers of help. It took him nearly half an hour to walk the five blocks to the apothecary, certain the fractured ribs were now thoroughly broken.

The apothecary was not one of his clients and had refused him service before. But if the healer refused, there was no other recourse. It was years ago, the last time he had tried to get medicines after he had stupidly stepped on a board with two bare nails when repairing granny's porch. After being told to leave, he had argued, mildly he thought, that he simply needed antiseptics that he would pay for and he'd be on his way. The man had kicked him brutally after tossing him into the street.

He gathered his nerve and gathered several coins in hand. Humans will do anything for wealth. He did not fear the man, nor the pain that the man could cause. He feared not getting medication. The unwelcome little voice in his head chimed in helpfully, ' _If you had the demon's magic, you could cure her without humbling yourself for this wretch_ _. You could heal yourself.'_

The sour man turned with a false smile to greet the customer, then scowled to find the reviled bastard child. Toshiro swallowed the answering anger, lowering his eyes and moving as quickly as he could to place a few coins on the counter. The practiced tones of polite speech came easily.

“Please sir, it is not for me. Granny has a terrible cough, deep in her chest, and a fever that won't break, worse at night. Can you please sell me something to help her, anything you recommend?”

He did not look up as seconds of silence ticked by. Some held it against the old lady, saying she was fouled by contact with the whore and her bastard. But most had benefited at some point from her kind heart and counted her service to him and his mother as the greatest act of charity. So, he waited, shoving pride far down. There were movements; he lifted his eyes enough to know that the man was not coming after him and he quietly sighed in relief. A box and two vials were placed on the counter, followed by a small clay jar.

“Pay attention, bastard. This tea twice a day, long steeped. Two drops of this in the morning cup, two drops of this in the evening. The ointment, a bit on her upper lip will help with breathing overnight. Make sure she sleeps propped, at least halfway to upright. If it's not significantly better in three days, skip the healer and fetch a priest. Two more silver.”

Robbery, more than twice the value. He gladly handed it over, placing the coins on the counter when the man refused to take them from his hand. He gathered the goods with quiet and unanswered thanks, then left as quickly as possible.

That day and the next were as difficult as any he could remember, tending the old lady in every spare moment around the clock while working as much as possible to catch up for the days he missed due to injuries. Injuries that were now worse. He had to make more trips, unable to carry the satchel as he usually did, loaded down with books and files for several clients all at once. Though he had wrapped his midsection tightly, he had to pause more frequently as the day dragged on, leaning on whatever support he could find and gasping until the agony died down to simple pain once more. And finally, when the old lady slept, he collapsed, each breath excruciating.

The bruising on his abdomen was worse, dark purple on the right, nearly black, the very obvious signs of internal damage that he could do nothing about. He knew from books what to expect, though he had no real experience. Blood pooling and stagnating within, poisoning his body. Splinters working their way through veins, organs, lungs. The insides of the bones themselves turning putrid. Even the healers couldn't really do anything about it; he would heal or he would die, painfully.

There was always another possibility, he thought as he struggled to rise in the morning. If he felt the symptoms that announced his body's failure and had time to do anything about it, he could chose a different death. Perhaps, knowing that the end was inevitable, Ichigo would be a little kind. Even if the demon was as vicious as Toshiro expected, at least he would get to see the joy of victory in those wicked eyes as Toshiro stepped through the barrier.

Or maybe it would be more entertaining to stay within the barrier and observe the demon for as long as he could, watch the demon rage as his prey slowly died so very close, unreachable, Toshiro's soul escaping mere inches from the demon's claws. The very thought made him laugh through the pain.

Late on the second day, the old lady's cough eased a little, and the fever finally broke. The horrid apothecary had at least done right by her, and he was able to get a little more rest. He watched her sleeping, so still and so ancient, a foreshadowing of loss. No matter what he did, she would soon be gone, tomorrow or next year of the year after that. Exhaustion took him, falling asleep in the thinly cushioned chair.

“Toshiro?”

He blinked blearily and whimpered with his first movement. Gods, it hurt, falling asleep slouched put too much pressure on his midsection, and he focused on moving only his chest to draw breath. He hid his pain, pretending it was merely the discomfort of waking cramped in a chair. She looked better; he could not hear the congestion with every breath like before.

“Good morning, grandmother. How are you feeling?”

“Never mind, boy. You look like death. How long have you been taking care of me? And working, no doubt, when you should still be in bed.”

“I'm starving. I'll be right back with breakfast and your medicine.”

How bad did he look to have the old lady tell him he was the one who looked like he was about to keel over? Once he had pushed himself up, the pain flared and then eased a little. Getting the fire going in the stove was a challenge, everything was getting more difficult by the day, by the hour. But soon he had omelets cooking and the kettle warming for her medicinal tea and his own, a brew of willow bark for pain, bitter but the best he could find as he had run through his stores of pain relievers. He had no choice but to take most of today off apart from tending the old lady. Tonight, the demon would come, and he had to be rested.

Returning with tea and reheated porridge with a fresh vegetable omelet, he made sure she had everything she needed, brushing off her concerned questions with practiced ease. As she was finishing her meal, he sat back in the torture device shaped like a chair and forced himself to eat. Swallowing hurt now, too, and his stomach rebelled. That could not be a good sign.

“Toshiro, you are too good to me. I'm sorry, my dear boy.”

“What? Granny, you're the closest thing to family I have.”

Now why did that make the wrinkled lips quiver and the kind eyes glisten with tears?

“I should have been there for you. But I let a child grow up all alone in that big empty house. I don't deserve what you've done for me.”

“Nonsense.” She would never say such a thing if it were not for the medication, though some part of him was mollified to hear it. “I would have died if you weren't there, you know. A lonely death. But you were there, granny. You were the only one there to pull me out of bed and make me face the world. I feel nothing but gratitude, so stop your bellyaching, you old bat.”

A few sniffles and they moved on to catching up on the days of gossip she had missed. He was relieved. At the time, he had thought nothing of it, not knowing enough of the world to see anything wrong. No other 8-year-old would have been alone all night, every night, even the very night after his mother had died. But what could be expected? 'Granny' was a paid caretaker, kind enough to extend some extra care out of pity and goodness. She was not family. There was not enough love to make her adopt and raise him like some family member would do for any young orphan. She had seen the kind of hatred that followed him and his mother, and she had left him on his own rather than take that burden on herself.

He supposed he understood her remorse. It could be that there was enough love in her to feel like she had failed him. More likely, she felt guilty that he cared for her now, unpaid, unasked, when she had walked out the door each evening. That day, that terrible day when he had said goodbye to the only person who would ever love him, _she had left_. She had to have seen the plea in his heart; some part of her had to know that his big, empty eyes were following her as she walked away, leaving him to confusion and heartache and the darkness.

He should have died that night, ready to leap out over the wall and simply end the pain through the fall or the harsh mercy of a demon. It wasn't the old lady who had prevented his death, but the dragon. One moment, one look of those wise red eyes, one stretch of the silver head toward his hand, and the familiar wonder and joy of the dragon broke through the heartache. Despair had been pushed back just enough to get him through the night.

It hadn't taken long. The hope that she or anyone would love him, truly love him and treat him like a son had faded quickly. That had been the final gasp of the already dying childhood. Now it was time to leave her to her empty house, though at least she would have several neighbors waiting for him to leave so that they could stop and visit with her. They cared enough to do that much, but not enough to buy her expensive medications. He was not the only one who was alone, loved out of duty but not loved enough to be treated like family. And he would return alone to his empty house, to rebind his broken bones and sleep until his demon came to keep him company.

Toshiro did not blame, or regret. And he didn't see how her apologies benefited either of them. Life had been a long study in suffering, cruel, lonely, until he looked outside his window and suddenly it wasn't. Now it was challenging, exciting, sometimes unbearable, and sometimes even pleasant. He could only imagine her guilt if he told her this and explained what exactly had renewed his interest in life. How appalled she would be. Perhaps she, too, would throw curses and stones, her 'dear boy' consorting with a demon. Cursed bastard that he was, it seemed only natural.

 

oooooooOOOOOooooooo

 

“Yuck! Oh, gods and devils damn it all, it's all over my shoe! Why would anyone live in this shithole? Literally. Agh!”

Shinji grinned at nothing, knowing if he grinned in her direction that shit-covered shoe would be planted on the side of his face. She wasn't wrong. As towns go, it was average. Truly, it was a little better off than most cities this far from real civilization. But clean, it was not. Obviously, no proper sewage network if any at all, no plumbing. It was like jumping back in time, back to his so-called childhood before the second Demon War.

“Relax, Hiyori. We'll buy you a dozen new pairs of shoes made of gold and diamonds with what we're getting. Good thing Hollow have no real concept of money.”

“This is stupid. All the way out here for a fucking human. Not even a special one. Anyone could do this job.”

“Yes, but lucky us. Stop bitching already.”

The two entered what passed for a cafe, really a tavern with big, wood-panel windows propped open alongside the town square. Across the square was a well-kept and large store, the kind that sold basic necessities and non-perishable foods, a guaranteed money-maker in a place like this. A mediocre meal and killed time lounging, and finally their quarry emerged.

“Ah, there he is.”

“What, that snooty brat? Who would want him?”

The young man was well-dressed for this place, quite handsome, and harmless looking on the surface. Shinji knew people, and there was a calculating look in the man's eyes, along with the three toadies that lingered around the shop and then fell into line behind him. These things told him that their target was a low-class thug, the kind of bland and boring bully that never amounts to anything, petty evils that may eventually work up to a real crime but likely not. The very definition of dull.

“Doesn't make sense.”

“Who's bitchin' now?”

Why would a Hollow, a particularly ancient and strong Vasto Lorde no less, travel to find and hire some of the deadliest mercenaries in the world just to fetch one pathetic and uninteresting human teenager? An obscene amount of Spirit Coin for this? Not even killing the kid, just escorting him to the other side of a barrier, what was the game? His natural paranoia looked for the trap, but if the Lorde wanted him and Hiyori, he could have taken them out. Maybe not when they first met, surrounded by six Visored and power-suppression spells, but he and Hiyori had traveled out in the open on a 'demon night.' The two of them would have been a challenge, but not one a Lorde couldn't handle.

He shrugged at his own thoughts, figuring that there was just no way to tell what the fuck went on in a Vasto Lorde's head. He had enough experience with his own Hollow to know that sometimes there was simply no rhyme or reason to how they behaved.

“Ah well, don't look a gift Hollow in the mouth.”

“Gods, you are such an idiot.”

They watched the small group of young men vanish around a corner, not bothering to follow. People in these backwaters were predictable, the kid would be back at his home at sundown or a few minutes following, guaranteed. The ignorant yokels hid every night, no trust at all in the barriers, no personal protections except ineffective folk charms, no real concept of what they were running from.

But they were right to run, at least. A lesser Hollow would be halted or killed by the town's adequate barrier. But a Vasto Lorde, even a strong fledgling could call out half the population if it wanted to, drive them right out of their stinking city into the night. Lucky for these fools, strong Hollow weren't like the primitive ones; they didn't eat trash and so a simple physical barrier was enough to protect almost all souls, for few were tempting to the upper echelons of demonkind.

Imagine, a Vasto Lorde haunting this little corner of hell. If they knew what was lurking in the dark, they would all be fleeing this pigsty of a city.

“Doesn't make sense.”

“Ugh! I'm getting something very strong to drink.”

“They won't serve you alcohol, kiddo.”

Nothing pissed her off like a reminder of how young she looked. They were all close to the same actual age. She was the youngest at around 90, and he was the oldest, the first created that survived, 107 years and counting. But their ages froze when their power awakened. Something to be proud of at first, the youngest awakening of the group. Now, she was stuck as an eternal child unless she shifted shape and lied to the world, which her pride rarely allowed.

“Fuck if they won't. I will burn this fucker down.”

He watched the milling crowd while she stalked off, cursing under her breath. Right in front of his eyes, not twenty feet away, just on the other side of the wall . . . his nostrils flared, dragging in the cocktail of strange scents and he went completely still. The figure was small, stopping to lean with one fine-boned hand tight on the edge of the wall, not quite waist high to the . . . boy? Young, not quite a boy, adolescent then but short and slight. By the build, a youth. By the eyes, an elderly man ready to leave a painful life behind. Bruises, a big one covered the right eye and temple partly masked with women's make-up. Smaller bruises around grimacing lips, chewed raw. The way the boy gasped shallow and quick with one arm wrapped around the narrow waist suggested that worse bruises were hidden from view.

The kid was stunning. Shinji wasn't attracted to men, and certainly not to boys. But he knew beauty when he saw it. The white hair, the wincing eyes a bright blue-green, and the features, not perfect, the slightly unusual shape and set making for a far more intriguing look than if he were perfect.

None of that is what made him freeze between fight and flight. This kid wasn't human. If he was, then his aura was so steeped in inhuman energy that it was impossible to tell what the kid was. Beneath the imprint of not one, but two _immensely_ powerful Hollow, beneath the whiff of human magic, there was something else. There was an alien energy he did not quite recognize. For an instant, he thought he had it identified, but it slipped away, leaving only the impression of vast power, bitter cold and dark, _world-ending power_.

Why then, would this awe-inspiring creature need to catch its breath, slowly straighten and mask the pain, stiffly hold himself upright and proud? What could possibly bruise this thing; what could hope to cause it any harm?

Behind him, he heard a shattering glass followed by a loud “Holy Fuck!”

Startled, the apparition turned to look, and Shinji had no control over his body's reaction as he scrambled to his feet, braced to run. He could only stare, open mouthed, as the kid did exactly what his brain was screaming at him to do, turned and fled, humans scattering out of the way with curses.

Silence reigned for minutes while Shinji focused only on calming down his inner Hollow and himself. Apparently, Hiyori was doing the same, and he heard her stumble forward and sit. At least now he knew what had drawn a Vasto Lorde to this dungheap, though what connection that thing had with the boy they were to fetch was still a mystery.

“What. The. Fuck.”

Shaking slightly, he collapsed back into the rickety chair.

“I have no idea.”

 

oooooooOOOOOooooooo

 

Relief. He winced and then sighed, finally able to take a full breath of air. Just for a little while, thoughts of how to get through tomorrow were pushed aside to simply stare at the ceiling and breathe. Though he'd slept some in the afternoon, fatigue was dragging at him again. Cooking dinner for himself and the old lady, running one last errand on behalf of a client so it didn't have to be done tomorrow, bathing and tidying up the house, it had taken every ounce of his willpower to finish it all.

These minutes were stolen. The sun would set shortly, and he needed to wrap his ribs up tightly again. He would not skip the precious hours with Ichigo, not for all the pain in the world. A few more nearly full breaths, aching but too satisfying, and he rolled to the side to struggle back up and get ready. It was genius, the brace he had made out of barely flexible wood strips sewn into thick cotton. He'd gotten the idea at the clothier's, seeing a dress being made with ribbing to shape the waist and accentuate bust and hips. Silly fashion, uncommon here but most ladies in town had a finer dress of two. Whatever the source, his custom creation had saved him and stiffened the wrapping just right to keep him from bending against broken bone.

Time was the enemy. Despite hurrying, he did not have enough time to make another batch of pain-killing tea. He sucked on bitter willow instead, dropping another piece of bark into a cup of water to soak for later. The taste was a small price to pay for taking the edge off the stabbing in his side. Tomorrow he would have to go across town and take his chances with the healer again, things had gone too far. The healer couldn't cure him, but this time he would have gold in his hand. He'd pay well for something to help manage the pain. And if he paid one of granny's neighbors, they could handle the shopping and make sure she had meals for a day or two, rest being the only treatment that might make any difference. But that was for tomorrow.

One hand on the wall, the other gripping a stout walking stick, he made his way down the hall. He paused by the door to compose himself, leaving the staff behind. Instinct told him not to show weakness, and Ichigo's reaction to his injuries was not one he wished to see again. He couldn't hide being hurt at this point but could downplay the severity.

The demon was already waiting, coming into view when he stepped right up to the edge of the window. Sprawled, one leg dangling carelessly off the branch and arms up, hands between the trunk and the orange head, his demon eyed him without expression.

“Good evening, Ichigo.”

“Good evening, my sweet. How are you feeling?”

He looked away, already flustered. Courtesy was nothing new. They fought often enough, but usually forgiveness was instant when they met again. Lately, a few arguments had gotten out of hand, emotions and opinions too strong. The night Ichigo had left, angry over Yoruichi though he did not understand why entirely, that had been the worst. How twisted their interactions were became clear when the violent murder of another demon brought them back together in a haze of horror and pure lust, at least on his part.

But politeness was more common. Can't go devouring hearts every time you get into an argument, he supposed. Only now, he wondered. The way the demon had spoken last, claiming he had grown to care about something other than Toshiro's bloody death and tasty soul, made _polite_ questionable. Did Ichigo actually care how he was feeling, apart from enjoying his misery and becoming angry over not being the one to cause his pain?

“Much improved, thank you. I confess I am quite tired. I don't suppose demons require sleep even when injured, do they?”

“Not for injuries, no. For massive drains of energy, yes, so that may be similar.”

The long form moved, no awkwardness or caution as a human would use when perched in a tree, standing and walking down the branch before dropping gracefully to the ground and continuing. He had once thought about taking a chair out to the demon's usual place but could not figure out how to explain himself to the guards. And the thought of lowering a chair over the wall on a rope was just too ridiculous when surely a demon who grew a tree in the matter of weeks, who walked on air, who held fire, frost, and lightning in his palm could conjure a chair if he wanted one.

“You seem distracted tonight, sweetheart.”

“Hmm?”

He sucked on the willow strip tucked between cheek and jaw, settling in his chair with false nonchalance. He was having trouble concentrating, Ichigo was right about that. It was not a good thing to be distracted when talking with the demon, but not one he could seem to help. He strove to keep his thoughts organized during their encounters, to plan ahead. Yet lately his thoughts were focusing back, reviewing the past and trying to understand what was behind when he should be thinking on what was ahead.

“Have you come to a decision?”

“About what?”

“Really, my Toshiro. You are not well.”

“I'm fine, demon. Leave it.”

Good, he needed a bit of his temper to get back on track. He knew what the demon referred to. Magic. He had to accept the offer. Ichigo was holding out a cup of water to him after a lifetime in the desert, he had no choice but to drink. Rather, he had a choice but only one path his pride and ambition would allow him to tread. He could not rot away in this place, ignorant and powerless. Nor could he bring himself to end it all, to walk into the night and let the demon have his prize. But he couldn't make it easy. It couldn't be unconditional, and he should not show his eagerness now that his mind was made up.

Some luck, the gold eyes turned to the horizon, then the sky, the last of the sunset light vanishing to dark blue. The demon had just checked the clock, and after a second of consolation that the demon's distraction saved him the need to speak, he wondered why. Ichigo had never done such a thing before.

“I have some business to attend to. And as you may find it of interest, I will conduct my affairs here where you may observe or not as you wish.”

This was new, and his wariness grew. Following the new direction of the demon's gaze, he leaned out carefully, and looked to his right, toward the nearest city gates. Through the gloom came two figures, still too far away to make out details.

“What is this, demon? Would you kill again right here beside my home?”

“Oh, don't pretend indignation, my sweet.” That smirk would be the end of him, especially paired with the playful tilt of the head, accenting the long curve of vulnerable throat. “We both know how much you enjoyed that.”

Biting back a denial that would have been an obvious lie, he fought against the rising heat in his face. It should not be true, but every moment of the brief fight, the horrid death, the nightmare feast had been etched into his mind. He had found bliss in pleasuring himself to the image of licking hot blood off his demon, a fantasy that he could not seem to understand or be ashamed of. When he bothered to question it, it only seemed right that some reverence be offered to such power, some meaningful appreciation shown for rescuing him from the lesser demon's attempt at torture. Aversion to what exactly he had wanted to lick off his demon's hands and lips did not even enter his mind. He stared at the perfectly clean lips and jaw, no trace of any blood now.

“How is it that your skin appears tanned? I had thought it a natural pigmentation, but you are darker recently.”

The demon cocked his head for a second, then gave a short, surprised laugh as the smirk became a real smile. He knew his sudden changes of topic delighted his demon, and he knew he indulged in his natural habit of curiosity more often because of Ichigo's encouragement. Nevertheless, it was an honest question, not a deflection, his eyes contemplating how well the honey tone suited the bright hair.

“You think all worlds align only in darkness?”

“Um . . . well, I guess not. But aren't demons creatures of the night? Shit, the texts are wrong on that, too, aren't they?”

Embarrassing, how ignorant his species was, how little he himself knew after nearly two years of frequent visits with a demon.

“I walk in sunlight. If it consoles you, my home world is always in darkness as I told you long ago. Only night and moon and stars, forever. But we do not vanish in a puff of smoke with the dawn, if that is what your priests and wise-men tell you. Ah, come to think of it, that was a legend told in that book you gave me. Trap a demon in a ring of salt and wait for the sunrise to finish him off, or some such nonsense.”

He chuckled, the demon's amusement contagious and drowning out his dismay at his own ignorance.

“If only I had known how easy it was, I could have been rid of you ages ago. But why, then, do you not simply stay?”

He felt himself blush again, realizing that he had just tacitly expressed a wish for the demon to be here through days and nights, to not leave him. But everyone leaves. Everyone dies, or walks out the door, or passes through a gate with the dawn, leaving him behind.

He looked sideways. Once anxious to find out who was coming to meet with his demon, now he wished them to vanish, at least slow down. Whatever the strangers intended, it could not be good. More tension between them, another fight, another abandonment in anger and hurt.

“Being away from home too long would weaken me, perhaps lending credence to those legends of killing my kind by trapping us in this world past sunrise. I have tried it before, and it is possible. But when the gates close, so too does easy replenishment of energy. One day, even three is not difficult for one as strong as I. Longer and I would require a good meal. But the gates are often closed much longer, and one can never count on them being stable. Being stranded is a very real possibility, one that instinct tells me to avoid.”

He was amazed. It was not the first time Ichigo had casually exposed a weakness, but this was a big one, potentially deadly. Perhaps the demon was honest, that there was more to their relationship now than predator and prey. Or it was grains of truth that could not harm the demon, given to earn trust that would lead to his death. Distrust and longing to have faith in the demon burned in him, as usual pulling him in two directions and leaving him feeling irritated and lost.

“Someday, I would very much like to see you in daylight. You must shine like the sun itself, bold and bright. Perhaps, if nothing else, you could grant it as a final request if you ever do catch me.”

That truly stunned his demon. Always, he vehemently denied the slightest possibility of losing. But he wanted to offer his own grain of truth. Though he felt at a constant disadvantage with the demon, if they were going to move on from teacher and student to sorcerer and apprentice then he could do his part to build some deeper bond. Not trust, but at least a new level of honesty. Otherwise, Ichigo could lecture all he wanted but the profound knowledge of magic would never flow freely between them.

Ichigo's mouth was hanging slightly open, but whatever the demon's response to his barely concealed admittance of the likelihood that one day he would indeed die by Ichigo's hand, it was halted by the proximity of the intruders. He resisted the urge to hide. They looked human, unimposing at that, and he had seen them before, mere hours ago. Strangers, just a brief glance, and their intense attention had unnerved him to the point of panic. One was short, scruffy, a boyish girl with an angry, antagonistic air. The male was slight but not weak looking, not tall or short, not handsome or ugly, yet not easily overlooked with sharp, intelligent eyes. He did not look strong enough to so casually carry another man slung over his shoulder, ignoring faint struggles and muffled sounds. Both were blond with brown eyes, very different but with a similar way of carrying themselves. Father and daughter? Siblings, perhaps?

It was his turn to have his thoughts and questions interrupted as the strangers stopped several feet from the silent demon. The man gave a shrug of his shoulder, hand yanking and pulling the living burden and slinging it down carelessly onto the ground. A muffled groan and the figure rolled over onto its side, facing the city wall and Toshiro. His stomach lurched, knowing that the night had just taken a very dark and deadly turn.

 


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning - blood and guts and torture and horror and things that go AHHHHH in the night.  
> And a really nasty cliffhanger.  
> You are welcome.

 

When he finally dropped the squirming weight, hoping something important broke when the kid hit the ground, he was quick to use a bit of power to clean and dry himself and his clothes. Luckily the bastard's bladder hadn't been full when it emptied. Fucking coward.

“Shut it, Hiyori.”

The brat hadn't stopped mocking him since the second he got pissed on and was restrained to snickering only by the presence of their extremely dangerous employer. He bent his head a little lower than required for a polite nod, never hurt to show a little respect. He didn't like Hollows in general, but Vasto Lordes were capable of being reasonable. And being this close to a god among devils made him sympathize with the young man who had humiliated himself out of fear, not that the little shit had known it when he pissed all over Shinji and screamed like a girl. Even calm and looking rather pleased, this monster was to be treated like the vicious predator it was. Then again, Shinji was created and trained to bring down just such vicious predators, and he would not cower.

“Sojiro . . . oh, god.”

Quiet but oddly clear across the distance, the voice was mournful. He hadn't gotten a good look at the figure in the window due to the angle of the wall and the stinking sack of piss he carried, but he had spotted white and suspected. From here, the boy was not terrifying. The barrier, no doubt, blocking and subduing the overwhelming aura that had rolled off the boy in waves. He shouldn't be surprised, the interest of his employer in this dirty village suddenly making a good deal of sense.

“Lorde, your human, as requested. Shall we wait here or return to town?”

The Lorde had indicated the possibility of a second minor task, with another pile of Spirit Coin just to wait around for the job. He had his guesses now that he'd seen the watching figure at the high window. They might have to truly earn their payment if fetching the white-haired human, or whatever it was, was the next chore. Just the memory of the kid's aura had his inner Hollow shaking with a glance; fighting the unknown power might be a serious challenge. Good thing Hiyori had come.

“Stay here, though you can back away if you like. Or not. This should all be fairly simple.”

The bound and gagged human had recovered enough to look around, wide eyes darting between the three of them while wriggling around like a fat worm on a hot stone. He backed off only a few steps, distancing himself from what he was sure would be an unpleasant mess. Any pity he might have had for the unimpressive human that had somehow crossed a Vasto Lorde had vanished when warm urine soaked through to his shoulder, so he simply watched with a bored attitude while Hiyori fidgeted and grumbled about nothing.

The Lorde stepped closer, violet eyes fixing on the inhuman black and gold that glared down, angry, murderous, and disgusted. Efforts to free hands from ropes became more frantic, shoulders twisting before freezing again as the Hollow moved. Kneeling, weight balanced on the balls of the feet, the predator contemplated the prey with disdain. The human had wisely stopped whining into the gag, panting harshly and rigid with fear.

“Sojiro, is it?”

The human flinched and yelped as a clawed hand fisted a chunk of black hair and wrenched the head around so far and so fast that Shinji expected to hear the neck snap. The snot and tear streaked face was pointed up at the boy in the window, beautiful face suffused with horror. So, was this about torturing the white-haired kid? Hollow did love to play, to turn the hunt into a game. If the doomed human was a friend or lover of the youth in the window this would fit right in with typical cruelty to force a target to do something stupid, like trading their life for the victim. Probably, if the pretty kid didn't give himself up for the sake of this pathetic human, he and Hiyori would be sent to fetch all the target's loved ones, one after another, until the Lorde got what he wanted – unconditional surrender.

“I believe you are already acquainted with my Toshiro. By now, you must realize what is about to happen. I will start with recreating every single cut, every bruise, every break that you inflicted on what doesn't belong to you. Then I will spend some time teaching your hands that they are not worthy to touch perfection. Don't worry, none of this will kill you. I'll be certain you are alive and completely aware so the lesson sinks in.”

Ha! He wasn't usually wrong. This twisted display of demonic seduction wasn't to tempt or taunt the watching boy, it was to avenge him. How very odd.

“Ichigo . . .”

The boy was pale, trembling as he clutched the windowsill, eyes wide and full of emotion but dry. Shinji wanted to tell the kid to keep his mouth shut. This Sojiro was obviously not a friend or lover, at least not a good one. And the glaring Lorde was waiting, rage burning the air around him, waiting for the boy to beg. It would be the biggest and likely last mistake the kid would ever make.

Toshiro realized this as his thoughts raced. It did occur to him to ask Ichigo to spare Sojiro, but only for an instant. He believed, no, he knew such a request would offend and enrage the demon who was determined to achieve vengeance. This was not for Toshiro, but to punish the human who caused an invincible demon to feel fear and jealousy, to defend what he saw as his property. As soon as he realized this, he knew he could not, should not stop Ichigo. He had no right to.

And, he did not wish to. Sojiro had earned no sacrifice from him, hadn't earned even the breath it would take to ask for mercy. Yet he still felt compelled to do something. It was one thing to find himself enjoying the painful death of a lesser demon that had tried to destroy him. If he watched a human he had known for years, a boy he once mistakenly called friend and looked up to, felt affection for . . . if he watched Sojiro suffer and die and _he enjoyed it_ , what would that mean?

It was not for Sojiro that he scrambled to find a way to stop this from happening. It was for himself. But he could not think of any way out, and if it came down to witnessing this or hiding from it then he would not retreat, not look away, even if he lost his self-respect, his humanity, his sanity.

When he did not continue speaking, his demon sneered. Suddenly, he understood there would be another repercussion if he asked the demon to spare Sojiro. _Ichigo would think less of him._ And the demon would be justified. Asking for mercy would be a denial of Ichigo's rights to revenge, a denial of the claim the demon had on him, and above all a denial of his own true feelings on this. Sojiro deserved whatever came to him tonight. Demon aside, he wanted a little revenge himself.

“Ichigo, may I speak to him?”

The contempt faded from glowing eyes, sneer softening to a wicked smile and he felt he could breathe again. The claw left a long red line on Sojiro's cheek as it cut the cloth gag. Then that hand wrapped tight around the human's throat, strangling the scream for help that split the air. No one would come, though his now weak tormentor did not know that the demon had ensured no one would hear apart from those involved in this tragic drama.

“Save your screams, human. My sweet Toshiro wishes to speak to you, and you will be respectful, or I will slowly rip out your tongue and eat it while you watch.”

He winced, both at the threat and at his own sick pleasure to hear it, to see the fear in violet eyes that had shown only glee at his own screams. His sympathy was fading quickly as the man sputtered and coughed, then twisted his head to look up.

“Toshiro, please! I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, please don't let it kill me. I'll do anything, Toshiro. We were friends, please!”

“Friends . . .,” he breathed in a wondering tone.

He remembered. Too young to have stiff ideas about pride, he had begged. ‘ _Please, Sojiro. You're my friend, please help me_.’ He could still smell the sweat and grime of the children holding him as others took their turns punching and kicking, the reek of garbage and shit as he fell to the ground, the natural metallic aroma of blood welcome when it came to drown out the vile scents. Oh, how he had begged, until he gave up entirely, not understanding why Sojiro stood smiling when the others had finished, walking away and leaving him fading from consciousness. And his friend, his only friend leaned down, patting his filthy hair. ‘ _You look good this way, bastard_.’ The twisted, kind smile was the last thing he saw before blacking out.

What he had thought to say, that he was sorry Sojiro had landed in this mess, that he would give a message to old man Kusaka if Sojiro had any parting words, it all seemed pointless and false. More words assailed his ears, more pleas mixed with babbling and sobbing. He felt disgusted, soiled just thinking that this pathetic weakling had been able to hurt him in any way, let alone scar both his body and his heart.

“Sojiro.”

Still more raving, less and less coherent. He sighed and gave his demon a look of gratitude when the long fingers cut off the begging, not too tight, but enough to threaten and mostly silence the human mess that he had once looked at with adoration.

“Sojiro. This is your last opportunity to act like a decent man. Pull yourself together and try to meet your end with a little dignity.”

Teary, covered with snot, reeking of urine and terror. For years Toshiro had told himself that he could not dwell on the actions of the ignorant and spiteful, while the small voice in his nightmares whispered that he deserved no better than to be betrayed and beaten. Bastard, freak, unwanted, unloved. He met the desperate, rolling eyes with cold scorn, baring his teeth in what might look like a grin as he bit back on years of humiliation and hate.

“You look good this way, bastard.”

He could feel his demon's contentment, hear the hum of approval. The blond stranger stared at him, mouth hanging open, while the girl just laughed. What a pack of evil fiends they all were, himself included. Then the stranger seemed to gather himself and stepped closer to Ichigo. He heard himself growl, partly to warn Ichigo who was not looking, but also for a reason he did not fully understand. He wanted the interlopers gone. This was between him and Ichigo, it was meaningful and intimate. Even Sojiro barely belonged, nothing more than a catalyst.

“Pardon, couldn't help overhearing. It seems this sack of offal has wronged you both. Now, I'm all for bloody vengeance, and it sounds like you have some good ideas on that front. But if I might suggest that death is too easy?”

Only then did his demon slowly turn his handsome head, still crouched over Sojiro with one hand around the man's throat. There was overt menace in every line of the coiled predator, and Toshiro shivered, fighting very inappropriately timed arousal once again. A growing part of him was jealous, insanely jealous of Sojiro whose filthy hands beat ineffectively against the strong arm, nails breaking trying to pry apart the long claws.

“You see, if you don't kill him or maim him too badly, he'll heal up in time. Not a bad looking kid, the eyes are a nice feature. I wouldn't have thought of it earlier, but the way he begs and cries without a hint of pride, well, he might be a valuable commodity to certain people. Just the right age for it, too; old enough to take a little roughing up, young enough to last awhile. And believe me, the life he would lead would be a good deal worse than death.”

“Leave it to a half Hollow, half human. You got the best of both, didn't you? Even I hadn't thought of anything so cruel.”

An orange brow arched as the demon turned back to him. He struggled to follow, not sure what was being suggested.

“What do you say, sweetheart? We've got hours to play before I kill him. Or should we let Shinji here sell him?”

“I don't understand.”

“Of course you don't, my innocent. You see, there are humans out there who enjoy pretty things, young things, or sometimes weak things. This worm may not have many redeeming qualities, but there are some who would find him quite appealing. I see you are still mystified, little angel. Sex, you do understand. Sex with force, humiliation, pain may be beyond your grasp. Such things can be mutually pleasing to the parties involved. But there are humans that prefer their partners to behave just as this thing has here tonight, tears and begging and pissing himself in terror with not a shred of self-respect.”

He felt sick, disgusted more at the thought that anyone would enjoy subjecting another human to such against their will than the idea of Sojiro himself being a victim. Sojiro who still struggled, whose spittle was shinning on Ichigo's perfect hand. He knew that Ichigo had to have lessened the power pushing Sojiro's throat to keep him silent, lightened his grip, allowing the young man to scream and thrash about as the horror was discussed with a hint of glee.

“He may even enjoy it, as long as he lasts. Such humans often break their toys beyond repair. But he would certainly learn a lot about himself. In fact, this could do wonders for him, give him a life with some honesty in it which he would certainly never have known here.”

Ichigo waited expectantly, and he looked down at the young man, now quite beyond terror. And he looked inside himself, learning that the only part of him that wanted to ask the demon to kill Sojiro instead was only asking for himself, to feel like he had spared the human a worse fate and assuage his own guilt. Nothing in him cared one way or the other about which option was better for Sojiro. He would not try to ask, certain that Sojiro would beg for life even knowing the unthinkable cost. That was more truth than he wanted; just the thought that anyone would choose such a life over a fair death made him swallow down the need to vomit.

And as his false friend wailed something that might have been his name, as Sojiro's blood trickled from between the black claws, his anger, envy, hatred swelled enough to overcome any remaining pity. Sojiro did not deserve to die by Ichigo's hand. It still was not up to him.

So, he shrugged.

“Do what you will, Ichigo. I am content that any debt Sojiro had toward me is already paid in full, so this is between the two of you and anything you need to do is acceptable to me. Sojiro, if you can even hear me, I am sorry that your path has led you to such a terrible fate.”

Shinji looked on in horrified wonder. Not at the actions of the Hollow, those were familiar and expected, mild even as the Lorde did exactly as he had promised, beating the transgressor in a very human fashion, recreating the damage done to the white-haired boy. No, what held his fascination was the dynamic between the two creatures that both seemed worthy of the title _demon_ , Ichigo and Toshiro. This was not the first time he had seen one of the stronger Hollow develop a bizarre sort of attachment to a human, and he had decided that whatever Toshiro truly was, human was the only label he could put on the boy.

But what human looked at a demon like that, a _Vasto Lorde_ no less? There was much wariness in the boy's remarkable eyes, but also respect, affection, borderline veneration even in the face of unapologetic violence. It was obvious the boy understood the suffering of his fellow human, understood that even greater suffering was being arranged. Yet no blame or horror touched the demon, the aqua eyes looking at the human with disgust and looking at the demon with adoration.

If the kid wasn't completely, madly in love with the Hollow, it was certainly coming. And the Lorde returned heated glances, possessive and obsessive but with such strong flashes of admiration that Shinji was certain the Hollow would fall to his knees and worship the boy at any moment. And then the Lorde turned his attention to the human, while Shinji watched the mystery of the white-haired boy rather than the brutality.

All this played out to the screeching of the whiny little bitch who was not learning his lesson. The beaten, bruised human might be quite mad already, well beyond any ability to do anything except scream and bleed. Toshiro would wince with each impact, delicate hands going to the same area on his own body. Not, he was certain, in sympathy for the screaming man, but remembrance of injuries that still caused pain. The pretty eyes lingered not on the victim, but on the demon's hands, streaked with traces of blood from earlier punches. And the innocent child looked _hungry_.

Oh, a fitting consort for a Vasto Lorde, this one. He only hoped to never see the boy again. If Toshiro survived his flirtatious war with Ichigo and began to master the chilling power in his soul, Shinji would listen to his inner Hollow and flee at the sight of white and teal as if he had the devil on his tail. Bored as the time and the screams went on and on, he made himself comfortable uphill a short ways, keeping a wary eye on the window. Far in the back of his mind, his Hollow kept an even warier eye, intimidated and attracted and repelled by the boy all at once. It was almost worth the gruesome spectacle to feel the troublesome beast inside him taken down a few notches.

It occurred to him that Ichigo might not know. The barrier made the boy seem like nothing more than a powerful soul, unusually strong and tantalizing, but not nearly what Shinji had sensed when face to face with the kid. And it was a fact, Visored had keener senses even than a Vasto Lorde, more refined and sensitive to auras. It was part of the enhancement forced upon them, the ultimate hunters and killers of Hollows.

Yes, it was entirely possible that Ichigo congratulated himself on finding an incomparable prize, strong and resilient of soul, exceptional, exquisite, but still human. He certainly wasn't going to be the one to bring it up. ' _So, hey, big scary Vasto Lorde guy. You know that kid you've been hunting? Yeah, he's actually some kind of freaky powerful monster that is probably going to eat you someday_.' That would go over well.

_Ugh_ , about as well as this was going over. The regular beating apparently complete, the formerly composed Hollow let a bit more of his brutal nature show. With a surge of the Vasto Lorde's poser, the wounded man was forced alert and aware before Ichigo took great care with each hand, removing the fingernails first, then slowly breaking the myriad little bones one after the other, often savagely enough for shards of bones to pierce through skin. Between bloodcurdling screams and sobs, a taunting lecture was delivered that Shinji did not listen to.

He only managed to keep his eyes in the general direction of the increasingly disturbing scene because there was no way in Hell he was going to let either of the aberrant lovers out of his sight. Hiyori, thankfully, had wondered off some time ago, hitting her threshold of violence much earlier. Neither of them were squeamish, and each had performed worse acts of bloodshed than this. But the atmosphere between the Hollow and the . . . whatever it was, that pushed everything just too far over the line.

Finally, even the Hollow seemed bored. The Lorde's paramour had long stopped paying any attention to the victim, simply staring ravenously at the grinning torturer. The kid gave him chills, but he couldn't help but notice that Toshiro was in pain. Agony, really, and not at all well. It was a comfort, really, to see that the boy had no skill, no training. Getting hurt in the first place, by a common human, no less, and then not being able to heal, Toshiro could not possibly have any idea how to use his power.

Strange, it was entirely likely that the bloodied, broken mess fallen at the Hollow's feet would live a lot longer than the pretty thing up there in the window. Did Ichigo not see it or not care? None of his business, really, except that it kinda was. He was just an old softie like that, couldn't stand to see a monster in pain.

The blood-splattered Lorde let the beaten and likely insane human pass out, much to everyone's relief. He watched with a bit of envy, he was part Hollow after all, as Ichigo knelt, pulled up one arm at a time, and used his tongue to heal the shattered hands. Well, partly heal them anyway, stopping blood loss, sealing skin over mangled tendon and broken bone. Those hands would never be the same, twisted and painful for the rest of the human's days.

The Lorde was dragging his tongue slowly over exposed bones and shreds of skin coated in blood. The licking was entirely unnecessary, entirely enjoyable for the Hollow, and entirely about Toshiro. If the boy weren't ready to lose consciousness from suffering it would have been more effective. Even fighting pain, the boy was so turned on by the sight that Shinji could feel waves of sheer lust from where he stood, appalled and a bit embarrassed by the entire night's events.

Gross. These two seriously needed to fuck.

He walked forward, careful not to let his distaste show. Time to collect the extra payment, a body to sell. See, he could be just as evil as a Vasto Lorde. He glanced once more at the ghastly pale figure in the window and whispered.

“You know, boss, chibi is hurt bad. My kind have really strong senses, and I'm betting that barrier fucks with you more than us. I'd say he'll be dead before next sunset, maybe tonight. You want his soul, better get a move on.”

Acid yellow covered the black of the beast’s eyes, a rumbling growl and a baring of suddenly sharp teeth, and Shinji, prepared for rage though he was, fought to stand his ground. Too fast for anyone but a Visored to see, the Vasto Lorde moved, startling the boy who jerked back from the window as the Hollow appeared as close as possible, standing in midair and glaring through the sudden flashes of power tearing across the surface of the barrier. Toshiro went white as his own hair, a startled gasp leading quickly to a struggling cough, bright blood speckling hand and lips as the boy fought to breathe.

“Visored, bring him to me. NOW!”

“What! NO!”

More coughing, more blood, he could hear the lung bubbling as the boy fought it, sucking in air shallow and fast. Spirit barriers were specific, all their power focused on one race, Hollow. The human part of him made him nearly immune, a stab, more like a shock of the nerves all through his body, but nothing to slow him down.

“No! Get back!”

The petite and injured monster had scrambled out of the chair, knocking it and himself onto the floor. Legs flailed, arms pushed against wood to scoot backward while protesting in a broken voice and groaning in misery. Fists beat weakly at his chest when he scooped the thing up, flinching as his Hollow screamed at him not to touch. Now he would have to clean blood off his clothes, too. What a troublesome night.

“Don't . . . put me . . .”

_Down_ , he assumed, the demand lost in what was no longer a cough but a desperate war for air. Drowning, the kid was drowning in his own blood. He could feel the power leaking from the boy, and yet this would end so basely, so humanly. He was startled to feel his arms and chest go numb where the small body touched him and raised his aura to combat the odd cold, the temperature dropping rapidly.

“Ichigo,” little more than a whisper now. “Don't do this . . .”

He was stepping up onto the windowsill with the light weight in his arms when he hesitated. Better to let the poor thing die now, here. The reverberating growl resumed, louder, the Vasto Lorde seeing him pause. Delivering this frail slip of a boy to that creature was low, even for Shinji. Worse yet, if the Hollow did not consume the kid, if the odd attachment led to the kid being healed, then the creature that made his own Hollow quake in fear would live, and grow, and he would be checking under his bed for the teal-eyed monster for years.

Another fit of coughing, weak, the sudden trauma drastically shortening the kid's brief lifespan, fists falling limp. It would be over any minute now, the damaged body no longer struggling to get free, only struggling to survive. Hell, he could keep the soul for himself, an exceptional treat. The Vasto Lorde would be furious, but the barrier would buy him until dawn when he could flee. His inner Hollow liked the idea, fearing the creature in his arms less now that it was nearly dead, drooling like a rabid dog at the scent of the boy’s soul.

Somehow, the dying human was still awake, mouthing ' _No, no, no_ ' with barely a sound, body clenching in pain while eyes stayed wide, and he was astonished to see them full not of pain, panic, fear, but focused on the demon outside the window and brimming over with so much rage that he nearly dropped the strange child and ran. This close, the kid's power was overwhelming, even weakened as the little one was. The not-quite-human was likely not aware that the room was covered in ice and frost, Shinji's own power saving them both from being frozen.

No, he wouldn't take this child into himself, all too aware of what it could do to him. Such a dominant soul would wreak havoc, destroying the stability necessary to balance Hollow and human. Whatever he decided to do, it would start with a small mercy. He quieted the kid, a gentle smothering with his own energy. It wouldn't work if the boy had any training at all, so it was clear that this kid did not know his own soul, stilling and fading out of consciousness.

“Visored. _Give him to me_.”

Also barely a whisper though full of deadly threat and he looked up, shocked to the core by the sight. _Tears._ He was not aware true Hollow were capable of weeping. Features stabilized back to nearly human, the Vasto Lorde stood with arms stretched out, sparks flying from the barrier toward singed fingers that trembled. Such awful grief was etched on that human appearance, and silently the tears flowed as he stepped forward into air, his precious cargo ripped from his arms before the pain of the barrier had even passed through him.

He landed in a crouch between the dark mass of the tortured human and the huddled form of the demon cradling the boy, shirt and thick cloth bandages ripped away to reveal the black, purple, red swelling of massive internal bleeding. One hand spread over the faintly moving chest, glowing with the light of magic to heal. Had Ichigo intended to kill and consume, he doubted the Hollow would have been able to hold back once touching such fine prey.

It was unheard of, a Vasto Lorde falling in love with a human, falling in love with anything. What else could explain this?

“Leave us.”

“Lorde? I can help.”

“GO! Our business is done.”

Two seconds later, dissatisfied perhaps at the lack of instant compliance, the pair vanished. His sharp senses told him the Ichigo headed toward the forest, vast power speeding his movements. He sighed, went to gather up the pile of coins charged with a fortune of pure power, stuffing them into his pocket before turning to the unconscious human filth and the stunned Hiyori who had watched it all from a distance. And he prayed he never heard anything of those two ever again. Somehow, he doubted his prayer would be answered.

 

 

oooooooOOOOOooooooo

 

 

Teeth. Long and gleaming red-streaked white, edges lined with tiny barbs to rip, needle fine points, deceptively fragile looking and strong as adamant. He struggled to even scream, the teeth already having done their work, puncturing holes through and through, flooding the space need for air with his own blood and the saliva of his predator. Gnawing at his side now, opening, closing, tearing, stabbing, and he, the pathetic prey caught and chewed, eaten slowly while still alive.

He knew how happy his demon must be, and he wished to see it, some small recompense for this miserable life and gruesome death. Struggling to open his eyes, fighting to clear his vision of involuntary tears, he found the red and white, the serrated lengths on display between widely smiling lips leaking his life's blood in lovely crimson streaks down honey skin. The gold eyes were shining with pleasure and adoration, and a wave of warmth eased the agony.

He and his demon had once discussed how nature provides a tender mercy to the fallen prey, a state of euphoria to numb the excruciating pain when a victorious hunter takes its time, luxuriating in the choicest cuts, the sweetest meats, while the heart still beats to keep the feast fresh. An obscene topic of conversation between predator and prey, he and his demon sharing knowing smiles and dark thoughts. Perhaps that final gift of peace is what overtook him for a moment as the joyous grin of death descended. He felt the impact, heard the wet ripping and screamed at the knowledge of it rather than pain, only a dull throbbing and pressure and the tongue in fine detail lapping at his innards.

When he was able to see again, he had managed to escape. No, his demon let him crawl away as the glowing eyes watched, a low laugh following him, the cat releasing the mouse for some final entertainment. Blood soaked the torn rags leaving a sticky trail in the dirt as he dragged himself to . . . where? No escape, he was dying anyway. But his attempt amused his killer, so he took comfort in the thought that the demon would get some enjoyment out of this. For some reason, it was easier to breathe, but the blood loss or the strange numbness was making him dizzy. He thought he might have fainted once or twice, but then he was on his side, curled tight, staring at once green grass stained black with blood and night.

Where had the demon gone? God, it was so much worse not knowing. His heartbeat grew weak, fluttering, racing with terror and the failing effort to move what little blood he still possessed. He heard footsteps. The gaping hole in his side, the shattered bone and exposed entrails held in by one hand started to ache again. He focused on breathing, so that when his demon arrived he could beg. He had sworn to himself years ago that he would never beg those that hurt him, ever again. But what else could he do but plead for a killing blow?

Yes, Ichigo would like that, he was sure. His beautiful demon would smile and smile to hear him scream please. _Please just kill me!_

But when the demon came into sight, stalking with graceful, fluid strides, his precious breath was stolen. Looking up at the long, lean frame swathed in shadow, the handsome face tilted down with an expression of hunger and a strange curiosity as to what the prey would do next, beautifully smiling lips red, red, red, coated in his blood, he could only think that this was not such a bad death. Feeding this marvelous creature's appetite gave some meaning, surely, to an otherwise forgettable existence. And he smiled back at his marvelous demon as the teeth showed again, razor sharp and wanting.

“Wake up, my sweet.”

_But I am awake, stupid demon_ , he wanted to say, could not find the strength. If he could, then he would say more. Asking the demon to remember him would be preposterous, but he could thank the creature. Though he had achieved nothing in life, at least he had learned a little. And he had laughed again when he thought he would never smile, had seen beauty when he thought all that was left in the world was ugliness. He could say _thank you, I love you, goodbye_ , if only he could breathe.

“Please, my Toshiro, open your beautiful eyes.”

So tired. He struggled, eyelids lifting but all was dark. The demon was closer, would resume his feeding. He wanted to see his Ichigo a little longer, even if it was only to watch his own horrific murder. But he was tired, so very tired. His eyes slid closed.

 


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, everyone! That last chapter got more comments than expected, and such supportive ones, very inspiring! Still focusing on Ichigo/Toshiro for a couple of chapters before getting back to the broader plot. Indulge my favorite pairing...

 

It was an idyllic locale, not far from the squalid human city. There were many scenes of quiet splendor to be found in this world that still had untouched and unspoiled places waiting for humanity to discover and ruin. The haven offered a feast for the senses, beyond what the eyes could not help but admire. Night-blooming jasmine lined the clearing, the loamy scent of heavy ferns hanging on the cliffs blending into the perfume. Melted snowcaps from the looming mountains fell down natural steps, moss-covered boulders softening the bubbling melody until the silver ribbons plunged into the deep, clear pool with a final splash against the background symphony of a million insects softly singing. Moonlight graced the open glade with the softest of lights, brightening the water, all glowing against the pitch backdrop of dense trees.

On the long grasses, yielding ever so gently to the slight weight, the young man rested. The green light did not take away from the beauty, merely added an enchanted aura to the pale features. Far too pale, shattering the peaceful illusion of contented sleep. His eyes were fixed on that face, the shining specks of blood drying on parted lips, the smell of it immeasurably sweeter than the jasmine.

_Wake. Open those wide, lovely eyes._

The internal bleeding had halted, he had made sure of it before moving them to the sanctuary. Slowly, with the most precise of touches, his power was working to set things right. How had it gotten this far, and how had he been caught unaware? On his last visit, his Toshiro had already been on the mend. Now, fractured ribs were crudely broken, grating and grinding their way through vulnerable tissue, letting blood leak into places where it should never be, flowing into the perforated lung and filling the frail chest.

The boy must have been attacked again, no scent lingering of the human he had recently dealt with but there were traces of others. The low growl built in his throat, threatening the peace. _He would tear apart the entire town_.

A change in heartbeat interrupted angry thoughts, and he checked for progress, the thumping of the vital muscle stronger, steadier. Bones nearly mended, abdominal cavity emptied of blood, lung clear and the jagged punctures closed. Power continued to trickle into the small body, oh, so very carefully. He would never let his Toshiro go, could not, or he would lose his sweetheart forever, only the heavy chain around his neck and the lingering taste of the luminous soul to remind him.

In the panic, he had not had time to properly appreciate the miracle. This is not how he wanted it to happen, letting that thieving Visored touch his Toshiro, kidnapping the boy, his little darling in pain. How sweet it would have been to have his treasure come to him willingly. But it had happened, and the result . . . he was holding his Toshiro in his arms.

The luscious soul made his stomach twist with the most savage hunger he had felt since becoming complete, but there was not the slightest slip in his control. Now, death temporarily averted, he took the time to marvel. He shifted, lifting the boy, stretching his legs out and lowering the fragile body until he had arranged them just how he liked, Toshiro on his thighs, resting back against his chest as he slouched against the comforting solidity of a healthy old chestnut tree at the dark edge of the glade, looking out at the tiny paradise he had chosen to host their sacred night.

All the while, his right hand stayed spanning the steadily moving chest, his energy linking with the raw, untrained power, quiet now with the boy unconscious. Nothing could have prepared him for the revelation, a mental blow so strong that he had nearly joined his sweet Toshiro in oblivion. Even now, he had to be careful to merely brush his thoughts against the roiling storm of power in his lap. It was too tempting; he could easily get lost contemplating and tasting and fighting the cold energy of his astonishing little human, and then he would not be able to hold back the instinct to consume.

The Visored had been right, he had not sensed this, had not expected this. This was what had drawn the strongest of his kind to the despairing child. This vortex of spirit energy to humble the great mages of old, the irresistible pull, mysterious and seductive, that had made the tiny figure dancing with the dragon take up permanent residence in his mind, in his heart.

“Wake up, my sweet.”

He had seen, had felt the fear in the two Visored. They were not just leery of him; they both tried and failed to conceal terror of the human child. Ichigo had been mystified by this, expecting rather that they would both be covetous of his prey. Souls like his Toshiro's were rare, and he understood when the male Visored had hesitated; the temptation to steal his prize had nearly conquered the hybrid's sense of self-preservation. He would have torn the creature to pieces if he had not had his dying Toshiro to save. Then, the Visored was forgotten as panic made way for wonder, the boy's power drowning him, soaking into his skin, chilling and seductive.

“Please, my Toshiro, open your beautiful eyes.”

So much stronger now, mature and no longer muted by the barrier, the unknown aura mixed with a naturally powerful human soul. It had been hidden from him, whether only the barrier suppressed his senses or whether it had blossomed with the threat of dying did not truly matter. Now, it was singing in the boy's blood, echoing in his own heart, deafening and divine. He buried his face in snow white hair, the scent of death and bitter medicinal herbs underlying crisp frost. And it was as silk, as fine as the shifting rays of moonlight, as soft as he had always dreamed. Now, what he had professed to be true became an undeniable fact. Toshiro was his, _only and forever his_.

 

oooooooOOOOOooooooo

 

Normally, he woke cleanly, like the lighting of a lantern - darkness, a faint stutter, then light. He felt like he was clawing his way out of the dark, slow and difficult, like he was smothered under a pile of blankets with the air heavy and movements restricted by the weight. Nightmare, his headache always meant a particularly bad nightmare and he hoped it would not come back, turning his thoughts away to not recall.

When his eyes opened to a beautiful moonlit glade and the clean scents of plants and water, he was sure he must still be dreaming. Better than the nightmare, the teeth, _damnitall_ he remembered, heart racing with phantom terror and pain. Something tightened around him, increasing his sudden alarm, and he scrambled to get loose. It was no use, his arms pinned, torso immobilized. His legs could and did thrash, trying to get under him, until something pressed them down as well.

“ _Shh_. Easy now, calm down.”

He didn't calm down; he froze completely. While his mind screamed, registering the voice and the meaning behind it being so close that he could feel breath stirring his hair, something rather odd happened. Like in the dream, a calm that was simply wrong, unnatural, took over part of him. He blinked at the incredible sight, a meadow framed by tall trees and taller cliffs, a wide, rock-lined creek, pool fed by a sloped waterfall dancing down step after step, long reeds at the other end of the pool where water bubbled on in a singing stream, blinking insects drifting, reflected in the pool's dark mirror along with the clear night sky and a million stars.

An excellent place to die, to have his soul ripped out. How considerate of his demon.

“Toshiro, breathe.”

“No.”

He didn't want to die yet. More importantly, he didn't agree, didn't surrender. Panic returned in a crashing wave of fear and anger, and though he did not want to end while uselessly fighting fate, nothing could stop his body from trying to escape the inevitable. But the more he struggled, the firmer the hold on every part of him, legs, arms, finally his head that had been jerking side to side would no longer respond no matter how hard he tried.

“No! Let me go! Not like this, no!”

How pathetic. But he wouldn't beg. He wouldn't. Useless protests and powerless orders, but after that vision of his own brutal demise he would not say _please_.

“ _Shh, shh, shh_. You need to be calm, sweetheart.”

A large hand moved, the arm wrapped around his waist moving up though the tight hold remained. He could just see it by looking straight down, unable to move his head. Clawless hands, blunt and ordinary human nails, broad palm covering his heart and he winced, ready for those fingers to flex, dig into his skin and through bone as they had to pry out the heart of the pretty demon. It would hurt worse without the claws. Would his own heart still beat in Ichigo's palm? Would it taste as good as that demon's, making his killer moan in appreciation?

“Now, feel me breathe, Toshiro, deep, calm, breathe with me.”

The hand on his chest rubbed circles in tandem with the quiet words, pushing against his bare skin, seeming to push right against his very heart, and he realized he could indeed feel the other breathing. His entire body shifted in time with the air, warm bursts against his right temple. Nothing else had worked, he could not escape, so he tried, tried so hard to find his courage. He was gasping, hyperventilating, his heart stumbling so fast that the demon would not need to make any effort to kill him, he would kill himself with this behavior. Ridiculous, to go out this way after all he had faced. Might as well piss his pants like that fucking coward.

He could only groan, words failing, as the threatening hand pushed against him. An odd feeling, it must be his death coming for him, those fingers burrowing towards his heart, but he didn't see the hand move, didn't feel pain or the warmth of blood spilling down his chest. Yet something moved, pushing into him and wrapping around the frantic muscle in his chest, making him feel faint. All the effort to get free was now focused on not blacking out.

“That's it, easy, slow breaths. I've got you, my sweet.”

_Oh, that was hardly helpful_. He clenched his teeth as he forced a longer breath into his lungs, the anger helping, determined to get enough air to point out how stupid the demon was, trying to calm him down by saying ‘ _I've got you_ _.’_ He damned well knew that the demon had him, that it was going to be a long and painful night that would make him pray he didn't live to see the dawn.

Slowly the darkness that had been encroaching on his vision faded, rolled away. He watched the circling hand, nothing else, the massaging slower, lighter. The strange feeling of something inside, stretching from those fingers into his chest, wrapped around his heart, became clearer. Yes, it moved in time with that hand, warming and strengthening the muscle, letting it slow and find a rhythm to match the pulsing hold. He was sure of it, the demon was taking control of his very heartbeat, coaxing it to a normal pace. It should be alarming, terrifying to think of it. But he was fascinated, forgetting to think of breathing, or escaping, or death as his attention was stolen by the sensation and the mystery of how such a thing was possible.

And why? Healing his injuries, saving his life, calming him down, bringing him back to himself, what purpose did it serve? Well, of course, killing him would be less fun if he was unaware, lost in the insanity of terror as Sojiro had been, nothing but a disgusting mess not worth pitying. Killing that kind of thing must be boring, repulsive really.

He had tried to encourage his false friend to show some dignity, and he must do the same. Perhaps that is why Ichigo took the time to bring him back to his senses. He owed himself and the demon a decent death.

“ _Shh_ , that's good, little beauty. Match my breaths, easy now.”

The velvet voice kept speaking quiet and strong, soothing words, sweet and even tone to tame and sedate. Making a choice to let it work on him, he slowly closed his eyes, feeling the warm breath matching the gentle rocking, hearing the hypnotic waves of late summer wind ruffling the soft grass in subtle harmony with the movement of his demon's lungs, _breathe in, breathe out, rock forward, rock back_. Back into his own mind, slowly, shoving out the unwelcome fear, the distasteful clinging to life. What had life ever offered him that he would regret its end? Desperation did not belong in his soul.

Not quite painful, his heart faltered and then resumed as the strange sensation of something foreign within his flesh began to withdraw. It ached, and tingled, but didn't hurt, not really. It did reinforce what he already knew, fighting the demon now was useless. Worse, it was senseless, anything beyond a false wish for escape was foolish and spoke of a weak mind and will.

It was done. His life was done. He was far from the walls and the barrier with the demon's arms and magic wrapped around him, his very heart in the creature’s grasp.

In the creature's grasp. _In Ichigo's arms_. By all the gods, how had he not realized this, how had he not felt the demon pressed against him, under him, caging him with both flesh and power? He grew dizzy again, skin awakening almost painfully to the heat of his predator everywhere, pressing from all sides.

It was too much, the onslaught of arousal as sheer joy rushed in to fill the trenches that fear had carved into his mind. He would recover from the shock of imminent death only to lose all reason as he grappled with the sensation of touch, _Ichigo's touch_. He had to focus on something, anything else.

“Ichigo, where are we?”

His head was moved, shoved to the left as the demon rubbed a cheek up and down in his hair several times, lips of pure fire barely brushing his ear when it stopped. Weird. But it felt nice, so much more than nice, as did the faint chuckle shaking against his back. The demon's cheek was as velvety as the voice he could never evict from his dreams. Calming, he opened his eyes again, watching the still circling hand. His chest and stomach were exposed, the cloth torn and bandages gone, the bruising erased from the skin peeking out from under the arm wrapped around his waist.

He could breathe. Deep and sweet with no pain.

“Always so practical, my sweet. This is a special place to no one but me. A little retreat, if you will. It was once a favorite place to visit in your world, until I found something even more captivating. I was here, that night, when I first felt your call. It may not be grand, not monumental, but I feel at peace here. Do you like it?”

“Very much. It's perfectly lovely. What is it that speaks to you here?”

The other arm that had been wrapped around him moved, and he tried not to feel it as a hand settled above his left knee and lightly rubbed up and down his leg, just half-way up his thigh and back down. He still could not move at all but did not try too hard to push against the unseen restraints.

“It will seem a little shallow, perhaps. It seems to me that in this one small glade is represented everything I have seen in other worlds that I wish my own world contained. Water, clean and clear, the softest and mightiest of plants in the delicate grass and tall trees, the gift offered by the flowers, the song of living things that have more in their short lives than simply harming everything around them. Would I could take this clearing home, maybe then I would be content to stay there.”

“Then, I am glad you cannot take it with you.”

And he meant it. Even now, captive of the demon that would end him, he would not trade knowing Ichigo for something as paltry as staying alive. For a thousand more years of life, he would not give up the warmth pressed to his back, not one single touch burning into the skin of his chest, not one stroke causing his leg to tingle so pleasantly. And then Ichigo's perfect lips brushed against his neck once, twice, closed with a kiss. He was certain he had never felt anything as heavenly as the demon's kiss nearly scalding his skin. He bit down on his own lip, fearing what sound might be trying to escape.

“You would have died tonight, my Toshiro, your body broken. For nothing, I would have lost you.”

Only now was it beginning to overcome his last defenses, the feel of being close to his demon, the hands on his leg and chest, the solid presence under him, behind him. Only now as the end was surely coming, lips moving down the side of his neck so quickly, as if the demon was suddenly in a hurry to eat now that its meal was awake enough to participate. And it all felt so good that he wanted to scream, wanted to cry out his gratitude for the embrace, the touches from someone who _wanted him_ , no matter the reason for the desire.

Not even the teeth, the hint of sharp canines nipping at the skin over his once again elevated pulse could bring back the fear. All the impossible fantasies he had indulged in were nothing at all compared to this reality, mere smoke blown away by the whispering voice.

“Toshiro, Toshiro, my Toshiro.”

It echoed through him, calling up the memory of the distorted voice calling the same words. Words of utter possession, as they should be from a creature that would consume his body and soul. That did not bother him like it should, being claimed, but something within urged him not to give in completely.

“Hardly sporting of you, Ichigo.”

He gasped as the hand rubbing his thigh dared higher, the thick cotton dulling what he was sure would have been purely blissful contact of Ichigo's thumb fitting into the crease between hip and thigh. He no longer cared why Ichigo was doing it this way, whether it was kindness or cruelty to provide comfort and hope. It truly was not a bad way to die, cradled by one he admired in the most beautiful place he'd ever been.

“Hmm?” asked the tongue that seemed determined to taste every inch of his neck. He still could not clearly see the demon's face out of the corner of his eye. Was Ichigo smiling? Was his demon pleased with the flavor of his skin?

“Killing me while keeping me pinned. Most undignified.”

The demon had the nerve to laugh at that, the sultry sound of it taking the sting out of any insult.

“My darling Toshiro, I have no intention of killing you. Have I not said as much?”

The words were spoken softly by lips touching his ear, making him close his eyes in pleasure. Then the demon licked at the same skin, nibbled around the edge and down to the fleshy lobe, sucking on it. It had never occurred to him to even dream of such an act, and how odd it was that his ear of all places could make him finally release the moan he had held back. He suspected that the place would not matter, any part of his body would sing under Ichigo's lips.

Over 8 years since his mother's death, half his life since the last time he was touched with anything but hate or pity. Oh, the old lady tried, hugging him every time they parted, a chore, a thing that must be done and gotten over with. Her heart was better than most, but he would rather she hadn't bothered. And as for these touches, they were unlike anything even in his fevered dreams. His demon's hands glided over him like he was something to be treasured and fawned over, lips lingering and pulling at the skin below his ear now as if they could not possibly have enough of him.

“Forgive me for not trusting that you have set aside your nature for no good cause. If you are not going to devour me, will you not release me?”

“No good cause? How you underestimate yourself, my sweet. And while I will not kill you, I may devour you all the same. Will you run from me now?”

Everything stilled while he absorbed the implications of the demon's speech, feeling each word like a physical caress. He did not believe, perhaps could not believe, it being against his instincts and his intellect to think of the creature he had studied for years simply setting aside the prey hunted for so long and now finally brought down. His attention went to the hand on his chest, circling wider, brushing over his left nipple, fingers deliberately moving to pinch the raised flesh in a most surprisingly delightful way. The other hand, longer strokes now, sliding to the side and up his hip but every time he hoped this time it would stay the course, the restriction of his body movement apparently not prohibiting his dick from lengthening and hardening, pushing up against the cloth, too close and too far from that wandering hand.

“I will not run from you. There is no place in this or any world I would rather be.”

 

oooooooOOOOOooooooo

 

_Delicious._ The pet name Ichigo had given his intended prey, _my sweet_ , all too appropriate. The boy was delectable, skin now healed, unblemished, unmarked, nearly as delightful on his tongue as the beads of blood he had licked from unconscious lips. The urge was there, quite close in his mind, bite down, rend and tear and swallow all the boy had to offer, not just this luscious outer surface hiding all the truly rich and wonderful flavors of soul and blood and muscle and sinew all hot, steaming, pulsing, alive.

But he would not. Not tonight, perhaps not ever. The rewards of denying himself the temporary joy of destruction were too great, the enjoyment he took in sharing his Toshiro's emotions, the stimulation of their long conversations, the beauty offered and the beauty promised by a soul that shown with the light of a thousand suns in the long, dreary dark. And it was all proven worth every effort when his darling spoke. The sacrifice of his hunger paid for by the pure honesty that flooded his senses when his Toshiro said such surprising words, all the while believing Ichigo would kill his prize in a most painful fashion.

“I will not run from you. There is no place in this or any world I would rather be.”

What a thing to say. What a thing to mean when speaking to a creature such as he, a predator with fangs poised over soft and vulnerable throat, pulse just there, he could see it, smell it, liquid life separated from his tongue by a thin membrane. The words were not a surrender, the boy had not made a choice to give himself to the dark. They were a confession, an admittance that though Toshiro would not have willingly submitted, yet the boy knew his true desire. And that desire was to be here, in his grasp, in his power, yet still alive.

A human, well aware of painful death and not surrendering and not denying him at the same time. Outside of the worlds where human zealots worshiped his kind and gave themselves to him in religious fervor, such a thing had never happened before. No, that was not quite true. There had been one. The demon hunter he had fought long ago, mortally wounded and trapped, the long conversation, and the peaceful giving of the warrior's soul. That one had faced the demon that heralded death without welcome but without judgment. He blinked away the memory, unusually strong.

He bent for one more taste, sucking on pale skin where the vulnerable vein throbbed just below the surface. Feeling the vibration under his lips, he wondered if the suppressed sound would have been a tantalizing moan, maybe a cute whimper. His Toshiro was holding back. Of course, his human was young, inexperienced. Too young? Vaguely, he thought that no, his Toshiro was no child, not an longer. Humans were not like his kind. In this world, as in most, they assigned great emotional importance to sexual acts. And they developed in stages, a familiar concept, but unfamiliar in the nature of the process . . . he could not think of words for it, the reasoning there in his mind but too foreign.

What he did know was that his Toshiro was physically capable, aroused even now. The boy had greeted him on recent nights with the scent of fresh soap and sexual satisfaction, not realizing that he could smell arousal, spilled semen, waves and waves of desire. He took great pleasure in the idea of Toshiro masturbating before his arrival in a vain effort to control the inevitable lust that Ichigo brought to the surface.

_Mine. Only mine._

Part of him was amazed to find that he cared about the emotional well-being of his prey. But his treasure was prey no longer, and he decided to rein in his desires as he reined in his other appetites, encourage reciprocation of his lust but let the human tell him what was acceptable for now. He backed off, admiring the red mark, the tang of blood pulled so close to the surface, and trailed gentler kisses back up the pale column before resting his lips in a deep nest of silken white. It was harder to restrain himself than he expected, with his Toshiro finally warm and alive and in his lap.

It would be unwise to lose himself in passion with the boy's power running rampant, anyway. Despite being prepared for the sudden onslaught of icy power when the boy woke, he had to adjust and readjust as he lowered his aura slowly, relaxing the firm control he had over the human's surprising gift. His Toshiro was strong, completely unaware which made the boy’s power dangerous, wild, lethal. As Ichigo’s hold lightened, the boy’s suppressed power pushed, raging to get free and fight back. It was like a newborn fledgling, all that energy and no control except what bare instinct could grant. Only, the little human had no instinct to guide him, so it fell on Ichigo to contain or direct for Toshiro’s safety and his own.

“Toshiro, my sweet, my own, I need you to listen to me now. You and I were meant to come to this moment. It is not as simple as hunger, though if I came across you tonight with no knowledge of who you truly are, I cannot deny that I would kill you, slowly, gloriously, taking all of you within me until nothing remained.”

The boy shuddered, able to move slightly now as Ichigo eased his hold, and a rush of raw power lashed out at him. It did not come close to touching him, the boy far too unschooled to accomplish anything. He looked with interest at the nearby foliage, leaves above and grasses several feet away lightly coated in white crystals of frost, while Ichigo’s own aura protected a little circle around them.

“Look, my Toshiro.”

His hand left its happy roaming up and down the boy’s leg and hip, his Toshiro did have such lovely legs, he knew, despite never having been granted the sight of them bare and parted and trembling with need. He licked his lips at the thought that he would may soon see that fantasy made reality, bringing his hand up to guide the pretty face with a gentle clasp of the small chin.

“Do you see, my sweet, the unseasonable cold invading my sanctuary?”

He waited and was not disappointed. Whether Toshiro felt fear or anger, sadness or joy, it always made way for insatiable curiosity when presented with a wonder, a hunger to know that rivaled in intensity the baser hunger that drove his kind, no less demanding. It was in the boy’s voice, marveling and yet critical, determined to obtain a satisfactory answer.

“What is it, Ichigo? You aren’t causing it, are you, the way it stops short of you. Is something else here trying to harm us?”

“It is you, my astonishing human.”

Relaxing his control a little more, the frost thickened and spread farther out. He allowed the boy to move his head and it turned slowly to take in the perfect circle and the uniform effect of winter beyond its clear limits. He moved his hand, tilting the boy’s head up, hearing the gasp and he looked up himself to appreciate the enchanting view, leaves of healthy summer green hanging low with the weight of frozen water in delicate tracings over edges and veins, pale pink chestnut blossoms turned into pillars of rosy snowflakes, a sight greatly improbable in the natural order.

“What do you mean, demon? Even if I were capable, I am not doing anything.”

“Ever the skeptic. You have suspected this, have you not? With all your reading, your questioning, you had already decided that there must be more to your story. What else would draw such determination to learn and grow, to harness the power that has been dormant within?”

From any other, he may have expected panic, denial, even an attempt to use newfound power against him. As he loosened his control again and watched frost become ice, encasing green and killing even as it preserved the perfection of summer, his ever-surprising Toshiro sighed and melted into him. He could not hold back a sigh of his own as the sweet youth let all tension fade, the comforting weight relaxing into his chest and legs, fine hair tickling his skin as the boy’s head settled on his shoulder to train shining turquoise up at the glittering leaves.

This felt wonderful, felt right, the light body fitting perfectly to his, soft and warm. He wondered if his Toshiro deliberately chose to rest against his right shoulder, exposing the untasted left side of his neck so very close to his eager mouth. He took the perceived invitation, keeping the kisses so light as to nearly be innocent. There was only so much temptation one could take, and the lack of any move away from his attentions made him hum approval against the heavenly satin.

“So that explains it.”

He drew up, perplexed by the caustic bitterness in the melodic voice, the sad resignation in the complex mind.

“Are you upset to find you have a gift most humans cannot comprehend? It is a gift, I assure you, not something to be feared or discarded.”

“And I will neither fear nor discard. Do not fret, demon. In some ways, it is a relief to finally understand why such magnificent creatures took notice of a useless orphaned bastard.”

The boy tensed again at his laughter. He had learned much about the species he had preyed upon for time unmeasured thanks to his Toshiro and the bond he felt to the precocious human. How any of them stayed sane with such unnecessary worries and mercurial moods, he did not think he would ever understand.

“You are cruel.”

“My sweet, you call me cruel without any judgment in your voice. Yet you speak of yourself with malice. Do you think that somehow you and your abilities are separate? Though you have not been able to call on it before, this has always been in you, a part of you, born of your soul and defining it simultaneously. To find your power attractive is to find you attractive, my precious one. You would not be who you are without it; it would not exist in any soul less divine.”

The young man sitting in his lap relaxed again, and he rubbed his face against one flushed cheek, watching the bright eye glaze over in deep thought. His hand dropped its hold on the boy’s chin, back to rest quietly on the slim thigh while its partner continued gently caressing above the quick, steady heartbeat. He could feel the turmoil, the doubt, a good deal less sour than the self-hatred of moments ago, but still not good enough. Not for his Toshiro.

“You have called me magnificent, my flattering little angel, and I feel the truth of your admiration. Tell me, is it for my power that you sing my praises? Were I less than Vasto Lorde, would I still be your demon? You may be tempted to give an easy, consoling answer, that you would admire me still for my form or my cunning. Take these things away, how much can be removed before I am no longer the same, no longer worthy of your awe?

“You see, clever one, it is not as simple as you may think, and I will not tell you that I would want you as much without your gift for such speculation is pointless; this gift has always been there from the moment I first laid eyes on you. It is naïve to think either of us could be the same without all that makes us who we are. Do not resent your power or think of it as a thing separate. Embrace it, take joy in it, for it is but a small part of what makes you the loveliest creature in this world.”

The scent of salt accompanied another radical shift of emotion, sweet tears of both joy and turmoil, again making him wonder how humans were not torn apart by storms of their own making. And his Toshiro was stronger than most, though no less subject to the damage inflicted by the human heart. As with human joy, gratitude was a flavor he had not tasted often. His Toshiro’s thanks washed over him like rain in the desert, something of a miracle to him. Darkness, bloodlust, killing for life and for pleasure, these things he knew. Even the solace of wary companionship was familiar, thanks to Starrk and Grimmjow. This irresistible human’s warm regard was still new, ever startling, an unknown comfort, and he basked in it.

For all the closeness of the moment, the human flinched when he licked a precious escaped tear, just the tip of his tongue trailing up, catching the glittering diamond and losing himself for a moment in the heavenly flavor of joy redolent with years of sorrow, just as rich as he had dreamed. He drew back again, retreating to the seemingly acceptable nuzzling into snowy hair.

“And you will teach me how to control and use this . . . gift?”

“Gladly, as I have already offered. This is part of what you call magic, my Toshiro. And something more besides, for those mages considered mighty among your kind rarely possess any natural control over an element. You will be the greatest human mage of your time. And you must start now, before your ice destroys my paradise. Fortunately, it is simple when it involves natural ability. Now that you are aware of it, you must look within yourself, acknowledge and control it like you do any feeling or movement, rather than letting it run unchecked and cause harm.”

“Simple, you say. But I cannot feel anything different.”

“That is because I am holding your power, keeping it away from us. I don’t like the idea of being frozen solid, you see. Each time I have relaxed my control, the ice has spread, reacting to your distress. Now that you are calm, you must reach within your soul and connect to the power you are already using. Control it, let it yield to your will as it wishes to, and then it will be safe for me to stop intervening.”

Silence fell again with the distant look in wide, lovely eyes staring upward. He concentrated on not mauling the bared neck, not reaching for the fragrant heat between lithe legs, letting the boy think. Only his hand kept moving, circling as it had all along, neither of them objecting. And he nuzzled again at the scent of frost while he waited, memorizing the smell, the softness.

The discordance of his Toshiro's chaotic emotions had settled into a calm hum slightly distant from his attentive mind. What a treat this human was, terror and fury and despair, desire and happiness and lust, and now a new flavor, such a deep sense of triumph that he nearly purred in content, drawing a little more of Toshiro's power into his own. How he wanted this boy, in every way he could have him without extinguishing the bright light that he was now quite addicted to.

“Hmm. Then, can you let me move without risk, or is my physical restraint necessary?”

“You wish me to let you go? I have only held you still to keep you from panicking and causing yourself harm.”

“Ichigo, please, release me.”

He only hesitated for a moment, reaching for the brilliant, icy soul, feeling that the boy was more stable, but still there was a riot of emotion. At some point, he had to trust his little fledgling to try his wings. Instantly he regretted it as Toshiro lunged away from him, pushing at the ground to get up and away, to leave him, and he felt a weight settle on his heart knowing that he would let the boy go. And then his Toshiro turned. His breath was stolen, and he wondered if he would ever learn to predict this exceptional human, so unique and bold compared to the rest, a sterling silver rose among the weeds.

 

oooooooOOOOOooooooo

 

Ice is a truly beautiful thing, completely deceptive in its simplicity. Even the appearance, clear and impossible to judge, tricking the wary into trusting it only to swallow them whole. More deceptive to touch, cold that burned, lethal as it tortured the freezing victim before lulling the deadened nerves into a state of blissful slumber from which they would never wake. The tiny crystals that outlined and accented were more beautiful still, an infinite variety of forms, only clear when you did not look closely enough to see how color was captured and bent into fantastical shapes and rays. Even the pallid moonlight set the gilded leaves in a splendid frame of gems, and he had a difficult time prying his eyes away.

Strange to be surrounded with sights so cold and yet be perfectly warm. Strange to be equally entranced by both ice and fire. The demon's embrace, the heat of his touch, they were nothing compared to the glowing warmth of Ichigo's words.

_Do not speak to a demon, and never, ever listen. If you do not listen, they can only kill you. Their words can do so much worse._

His mother never lied, yet she was wrong. The words of his demon had been his salvation time and again, and he could no longer bring himself to distrust. He didn't want to distrust, even if it cost him everything. His life was already forfeit. He would have died of simple human frailty had the demon not healed him. Now he would die here in Ichigo's arms, so what reason was there not to believe and be happy, truly happy because of the demon's words?

Even as Ichigo told him that he only had to reach within to touch the power that was evident around them, he did so. Within the warmth, deep within, beyond where the haunting voice of the demon dwelled alongside his self-doubt, his longing for a life worth living, the memories of love, beyond all the nightmares and wishes, he found it. Or perhaps he created it in that moment, a sanctuary of his own at his very core where diamond dust sparkled in the frigid air above plains of snow and towering crystals of ice, a winter such as his waking eyes had never seen.

_Home_. _At long last I am home._

His heart clenched, a piercing joy consuming all his doubts, washing away fear. He could not feel such things here, only peace and strength, his awareness simultaneously expanding to the horizon and intently centered within his cold, clear mind. He belonged here, had always belonged here without ever knowing.

There was a great need to linger, to explore this peace and the welcome cold serenity. But a greater need urged him to return to the waking world. In that frosted homeland filled with nothing and everything, bleached white and riots of color, his debt to his demon and his gratitude were magnified. He hoped he was able to return to this sanctuary before he died to carve a monument in his very soul so that he would never forget to whom he owed this priceless gift.

A moment was taken when he returned to awareness, to reach out and make sure he could feel the cold energy as Ichigo said he would. The demon did not lie; it was a simple as commanding his hand to rise, the ice releasing its killing hold, already melting. Another moment to indulge in the comfort of near helplessness, wrapped up in his demon who seemed obsessed with rubbing that handsome face into his hair, which was delightful, if weird as so many things about Ichigo were. Then he asked to be freed, to be allowed to move, calmly, trying to hide his agenda from the demon who always seemed to know what he was thinking before he did.

Slightly surprised that Ichigo complied, he reacted quickly in case his demon changed his mind. As soon as he moved, a rush of strength hit him, his healed body delivering more than he had counted on. The graceful maneuver he had planned became an awkward jump forward, almost falling as he half stood with feet on either side of Ichigo's long legs, only too glad he didn't land face first in the dirt. With better coordination, he shifted his bare feet, turning to look down at his demon, astonished to find an expression of profound sadness in the strange eyes he usually had trouble reading.

Not giving it too much thought, his mind and heart already set on a course of action, he stepped forward and knelt with a good deal more grace, smiling smugly as he settled back in that warm lap, knees on either side of Ichigo's hips and shins pressed alongside strong thighs.

“Toshiro?”

The utter astonishment on the handsome face brought a bubbling laugh to his lips as his hands lightly rubbed up and down the arms that held him. The strange, shifting black and red that might be a garment but felt something like fur, something like feather, something like leather sent little electric tingles from fingers up his arms. The demon's big hands automatically moved, palming his waist. _Perfection_.

“You truly do not intend to kill me?”

Still mystified, the demon's head tilted slightly to the side. He had always found that adorable. Even years ago, when he was still terrified and angry every time the demon appeared outside his window, he would ask a question that Ichigo obviously didn’t expect and that spikey orange hair would bounce as it tilted swiftly to the left and his fear would break with a smile. He half expected to see pointy ears cocking high in concentration.

“My sweet, I have never lied to you.”

He leaned forward quickly, before he could lose his nerve, certain he would go quite mad if he didn't taste his demon immediately and thoroughly. Too awkward, he knew, a clumsy and slightly painful collision, but once his lips touched the demon's he lost all concern for trying to seem confident and suave, the absolute thrill of it racing through his nerves. It seemed he’d been dreaming of this moment his entire life, yet those dreams paled in comparison to the reality of the searing hot lips pushing into his, guiding them softly for he could not move, could not think, could only collapse into the hold of firm hands. The tingling soft fur leather feather feeling pressed against his bare front, speeding his already stressed heart.

Delirium threatened to steal the seconds he wished to experience and remember in exacting detail, and he fought to focus. Then Ichigo nearly ruined his efforts by leaning forward, long fingers cradling the back of his head, threading through his hair. His body was pulled flush to muscular flesh by another hand under his torn shirt, gliding over to the skin of his back. The sound he made was undignified and desperate, the whining of a puppy pleading for affection, but he didn’t care, his hands finding each other, clasping around the demon’s neck and holding tight.

“Toshiro, sweetheart, are you sure you want this?”

When had the lips moved from his own? He could feel them still, though his heavy-hooded eyes watched them avidly, damp and glistening as the demon spoke. Even now, he was sure that this night would be his last. He did not doubt Ichigo’s sincerity, but the ruthlessly logical part of his brain knew that he was in the jaws of an always starving wolf. It was Ichigo’s nature, as the demon had pointed out many times, and he would not blame his killer or avoid his fate. But he hoped for a little more. Human nature, he supposed, the epitome of greed. He had been given so much, but _just a little more_ , another touch of those lips, that hand heating a little more of his bare skin, the throbbing erection painfully trapped in cloth pressed to Ichigo’s stomach given just one chance to come to completion in his demon’s merciless grasp.

“I have never been so certain of anything. You have given me so much. _Please, Ichigo_. Just give me a little more.”

 


	18. Chapter 18

Ichigo stared, lost in wonder. To be eyed with affection and desire by his prey while it sat in perceived safety beyond a barrier was remarkable enough, but to be shown fearlessness and be given credit and sincere thanks by his prey while it was in his arms was something he never thought to experience. He had nearly torn his own heart out to provide the youth an opportunity to flee. Yet here the boy was, seducing, offering up innocence to a creature of darkness. An offer he could only accept, renewing contact with lips raw from being worried by pearly teeth, so tender, so timid and eager at the same time, shouting of inexperience.

He led the gentle movements, his partner apparently content with simple, easy clasping of lips. And it was enough for him, wholly enjoying the changes in his little beauty, skin that was delightful to touch moments ago now intoxicating, maddening, seething with the surprising power that had been awakened. That power leaked from the untrained human, a feast that seeped into him at every point of contact, cool nectar to drink off the virgin lips.

It would not take much, the young man trembling with excitement and anticipation. He did not need to remind himself to be careful. This was his Toshiro, sweet boy who danced with dragons, bright soul he had shared so many nights with as the human grew and changed. He wanted something different between them than anything he had known, where he had once envisioned only the intimacy of violence and savagery. He wanted more than passion. He wanted understanding.

The pretty face was the epitome of temptation when his hands pushed away the arms looped around his neck, pushed them back so that he could slide the ruined shirt off the slender body, tearing his eyes from the dazed teal to the panting mouth and down the neck still damp from his kisses. More muscle than expected, this he had already noted. His little scholar did not only read and write and gaze at stars. Still, the boy was thin, every healed rib showing beneath a meager layer of flesh, and his hands wrapped around as they slid down, leaving ribs to find the narrow waist.

Looking back to the pink cheeks, parted lips, eyes heavy and dark watching and waiting, he dipped his head to the pale chest. Hands so much smaller than his, yet strong, sporting small calluses from unknown labors, clasped his shoulders as the delicate spine arched. He had once seduced his Toshiro with his own dreams of licking the boy's chest until begged to never stop. Already the clear voice was letting high notes ring out as he introduced his fragile human lover to one of many joys his tongue could provide, humming as each stroke coated his tongue with the aura as strong as one of his own kind.

Too soon, he had to pull back. He had barely teased, just a few swirls of his tongue around the pert little nipple opposite the one he had rubbed red earlier, just a bare nibble and the unschooled body was rubbing against him. There was not an ounce of shyness in the boy's movements, no shame at all for his Toshiro obviously knew nothing. The orphan had never been shown the love between two humans, nor the self-hatred of those taught to deny desire as a sin. Toshiro had learned neither how to express attraction, nor how to truly satisfy natural cravings. And so, the small hips moved as nature told them to, the honest voice gasping a demon's name between unrestrained efforts to find pleasure.

There was only one way to proceed. This miracle of untainted lust must be given anything and everything it demanded. Never could he turn it down, belittle its needs, deny its wants. This boy, this perfect youth would never learn shame, not from him. And Toshiro would never learn what all humans taught each other, that their desires were wrong, disgusting, perverted, or that they simply asked too much of their partners.

“So beautiful, my sweet.”

Not as delirious as the dazed look and uncontrolled moaning suggested, the boy scoffed, a scornful grin marring the exquisitely lewd expression. Delicate fingers were dancing up and down his sides, gripping and petting, exploring the shape of him under the protective layer of power that passed for clothing with nearly frantic enthusiasm. He tugged firmly on the white hair, forcing the wide eyes to meet his. One thing the gorgeous young man had learned from the spiteful humans around him was that the strange bastard child was unwanted, reviled, hated. Ichigo did not know or care if the humans did not see beauty, or if they saw it too well and sought to destroy it. It was his now, never to be theirs again, and he would praise that beauty until the precious boy knew his words were true.

“You are beautiful, my Toshiro, the fairest, most alluring creature this world will ever seen.”

He found the open lips, watching the rapid blinking of surprise as he entered for the first time. The sweet boy did not even know this, of course, no one having claimed the privilege before he did, the first to taste the wet warmth, tinged with something bitter and earthy and the lingering bliss of bright blood. His tongue lifted and played with the smaller muscle, coaxing it to try his own flavor, giving way when the human's curiosity led quickly to a reversal, Toshiro's tongue pushing into his mouth with barely a pause for breath.

Encouraging the wanton way the lithe body shoved itself closer, he played gently with silken hair with one hand while the other spread across the flexing back, sliding down under the loose waistband of the cotton pants, kneading in time with the boy's awkward thrusting and rubbing.

An explosion of rich decadence wrested a growl from him, and he felt the grin on lips pressed hard against his. His innocent Toshiro had deliberately found a sharp canine, the discreet fangs he kept even when appearing almost human and pressed into the point. The bloodied tongue was delicious, and he growled louder as he sucked harshly on it, sucked a full dose of Toshiro's cold energy down his throat, suddenly feeling his control slipping, his own slow arousal reacting to the wonderful influx of power.

A swallowed moan, then a startled sound and fingers were clutching at his ribs, reaching around to his back, palms flattening on abruptly bare skin as he banished anything separating their heat. He let the small mouth go, the boy's head falling, resting on his shoulder, gasps for air growing as frantic as the hips which had learned how to roll and gyrate to win the most friction and satisfaction. He widened his thighs and shifted the boy's weight, freeing his own needy cock from the delightful pressure of being trapped under that pert rear. So tightly the young human clung to him, it was work to wriggle his hand in between their bodies, but work well worth the effort when his hand wrapped around his own aching erection and the smaller, wetter length.

The svelte body shook and stopped, muscles locking, arms wrapping tight around his torso as if seeking support. After an agonizing pause where they both struggled to breathe, he loosened and tightened his hold, intentionally bringing pressure back one finger at a time, a massaging ripple to tease them both. Something resembling his name tumbled again and again from wet lips against his neck.

“Is this okay, sweetheart?” A question he had never asked any partner, nor been asked.

“Yes,” clever lips sliding up to whisper against his jaw. “Oh, yes, Ichigo.”

And then he stroked.

The wail of distressed pleasure was almost enough to make him break first, despite the little one's desperation. So wet, the boy dripping, his own fluid mixing in with it, coating his hand, slippery and perfect. His fingers curled, trapping the pretty cock against his, firmly rubbing over the tip before sliding quickly back down. Toshiro shook and clumsily, charmingly began to move again with the next stroke, shifting back and forth, up and down, with no clear intention or rhythm.

He held back laughter when the boy finally looked down, letting a little air between them to stare. The choked curse could have been in reaction to the slow twist of his wrist, or more likely to the young human's first sight of Ichigo's cock, which he was rather proud of. Tilting his head to nibble on the slender shoulder, his hand spread on the boy's lower back in comforting support. His hold adjusted, letting the awkward writhing add tension and unpredictable surges of sensation between his more practiced manipulations.

“Aah! Ichigo, I . . . mmmm, too . . . so good!”

It was a pleasant surprise when the boy imitated him, harsh breaths and stilted words breaking to lay open-mouthed kisses at the base of his throat, sucking just a little on the soft skin above his collarbone, eager kisses pushing the cool metal of the pendant across his skin. The clever hands had mapped out every available inch of his back, sides, arms, and had worked their way back into his hair, tugging, petting, scratching at his scalp.

Ichigo forced his growls into more human groans, wanting his Toshiro to recognize how much he was enjoying this, how right and wonderful and sweet the boy was. The sounds the young human was making, soft grunts and sighs right against his skin, the emotions swirling around them, more than lust, a hint of that luscious despair that told him death was still in his Toshiro's expectations, and the tentative beginnings of an exchange of energy, just little sips that the boy did not even notice, these were the things that inflamed him to keep pace with Toshiro, his palm managing to softly stroke the boy while fingers tightened to put more pressure on his own flesh, just as he liked it.

“My sweet, my Toshiro, mine!”

Unable to resist, he bit none too gently into the crook of the boy's neck, sampling that incomparably rich blood like dark wine, laced with life that poured energy through his veins. His Toshiro yelped but did not pull back from the assault, hands scrabbling down his back, finally getting the idea of rolling narrow hips again to thrust into his hand. Not finding himself denied, he sucked, pulling more red ambrosia onto his tongue, reveling in the power swirling down his throat to add fuel to the fire ignited by the icy beauty in his lap.

“My . . . mmmm, my demon! Oh! I . . .I . . .”

His hand tugged roughly, changing pace with the urgency amplified by the sharp mind not dulled in the least by pleasure, awash in a cascade of raw emotion and a shocking stark possession to match his own. Toshiro had been on the edge of orgasm, delayed by confused and uncoordinated attempts to find relief, but now he could feel the building ecstasy in the young body, pushing his own passion to match. His free hand crawled up the valley and then the ridges of the twisting spine to find thick white hair and gently pull, drawing his own head back with a final lick at torn skin.

Vibrant eyes locked on his immediately, dark but still perceptive, even in this split second before he was witness to the precious moment when that cunning brain finally went blissfully blank. Black lashes swept down, then shivered as an expression of intense pain contorted the pretty face, only the parting lips giving away the truth, curved in pleasure as they opened around a harsh cry.

The heat of his Toshiro's release was trapped between their tightly locked bodies, trapped in his hand as the boy came in short spurts. He allowed himself to follow the convulsing youth, moaning as the world dissolved into shuddering flesh and hot fluids and dizzy, hazy, light-headed euphoria.

It occurred to him that he had never experienced anything quite like this, not with the few humans he had fucked, certainly not with his own kind. Shattering orgasms, sex both rough and gentle, but not such a simple and rich pleasure, almost innocent and yet so raw, so intimate. It suited his Toshiro; the sweet boy had given every ounce of his attention and effort, deep in desire and its rewards with not a care for the vulnerability shown to the predator holding him tight, not even shying away from Ichigo's bite. He leaned back against the harsh bark of the tree, the boneless and panting boy sagging on his chest, and allowed himself to drift, humming in contentment, his clean hand idly caressing low on the fragile spine while he licked his other hand in slow, casual strokes.

 

oooooooOOOOOooooooo

 

Toshiro had certainly never experienced anything like this. It was heavy, the waves of immeasurable rapture at first electrifying, now soporific, quiet and long-lasting, each renewed surge of sensation leaving him more aware but also more unwilling to move. It was light, while his body was weighed down his mind wandered without any destination, careless thoughts of warmth, the fingers stroking the base of his spine, the way the broad chest under his cheek moved them both as his demon drew deep breaths, the hum filling his body. The pleasure he had experienced on his own was but a titillating prelude to this sharing.

Gradually, more details crept in around the edges. His rapid breaths evened out and he sighed, committing to memory the scent of sweat and cum, crushed grass, blood, and the strange combination of blooming flowers and snow. Movement drew his eye. He dragged his cheek across hot silk of the demon's skin to look up, watching in absent fascination as the tongue he wanted to taste, to play with, to never release wrapped around a long finger and slid up. He swallowed the saliva suddenly flooding his mouth, one of his earliest fantasies coming back, licking the blood off the clawed hands that had defended him against the lesser demon.

It did not matter to him what Ichigo was cleaning from that strong hand as he reached up and drew it down, orange brows rising as the demon yielded. Blood wasn't entirely palatable either, he thought as he pressed his tongue flat into the broad palm, but it wasn't about taste. And this blend of his demon's ejaculate with his own, how much more meaningful even than blood this was. The tip of his tongue slipped between the longest finger and the one that romanticists say contains the veins connecting directly to the heart, finding some remaining liquid and lapping it up.

There was a hint of bitterness, hidden under salted caramel. No, not that sweet. Shortbread, perhaps. That was odd. The ribald jokes he had heard at the forge, at the stables, anywhere men gathered suggested that this should be unpleasant, nasty. The rough men joked about women who refused to taste, refused to swallow, and then joked more about women who would, all behind said women's backs where they laughed and laughed and then shut their fool mouths at the first sight of a skirt. He should have known they were all liars.

A quiet moan sounded from above as he released one cleansed finger and sucked another into his mouth, what a wonderful sound, that familiar velvet caress even softer, even closer. He had dreamed of Ichigo's voice like this. The reality of it did not disappoint, nor did anything about the demon from the sight of the marvelous body finally bare to the exquisite taste of the skin, the mouth, the cum. He looked up into gold that gleamed and flashed in the moonlight and knew he would die content, happy with all he had gained tonight.

The hand pulled away from his grasp. He would have complained if it weren't for the sudden movement, disorienting to his still languid mind. Looping his arms around Ichigo's neck, he found himself being carried, cradled like a child, and shivered when the scalding heat of contact with his demon was replaced with merely warm summer night air on his damp skin. Very damp. He snickered as he looked down at his own body, a complete mess, and he suspected his mirth was what earned him several kisses on the top of his head, then his forehead, then his nose as he turned his face back up.

“You are a delight, my sweet. An absolute treasure.”

Staring at the expression of adoration, he let himself believe that Ichigo meant such things, and not just out of hunger. He wanted to return the compliment, but what could he say? _Thanks for the mind-blowing orgasm, now give me back my lollipop?_ He chuckled, giddy and refusing to worry about how ridiculous he felt being carried like a bride, refusing to worry about feeling so aroused again, refusing to worry about whether or not he would see the dawn. What did any of that matter?

Ichigo was rubbing on him again, roughly shoving his head to the side to push cheek to cheek, for all the world like a cat. Scenting him? Like Yoruichi had, marking and leaving some trace on him that had later angered his demon. He turned his head a little more, pressed into the touch and snickered again at the pleased hum.

“I cannot possibly smell any more like you at this point, crazy demon.”

Without a pause in the slow stride, Ichigo's arm tightened, lifting him to have his lips captured again, nipped and then licked while he laughed breathlessly.

“That's where you're wrong, wise Toshiro. I would dearly love to take you apart and roll around inside you, covering myself in as if wrapping you around my body. Then I would pry my chest open, gather all the pieces and keep you locked safely in the cage of my ribs.”

Even as he yielded to another kiss, a shudder went through him, a cold warning in his mind. He was mad, completely insane to be pliant in the arms that could do exactly as threatened, rip him to shreds as the demon had promised the first time they'd ever spoken. He as mad to find the threat rather charming, mad to smile when he could see the hunger simmering in molten gold.

“But this will do for now. Time to clean you up.”

They were heading for the water, the pool at the base of the waterfall. His toes curled in delighted anticipation. The tub was the deepest water he had ever been in, and he would sit in it until his skin wrinkled, ducking under until he could no longer hold his breath. There was a river just outside the city wall, but it was dirty with brown silt carried down from the hills, the water fast and treacherous. And the public bathhouse was not an option for him, though he had never tried, knowing he would be denied since his mother had never taken him there.

“Ichigo, I don't know how to swim.”

“That's alright, sweetheart. You can hold on to me as much as you like.”

The splashing as the long legs strode in fearlessly broke the melody of the waterfall, and he leaned away from the safe warmth to look down into water dark with night, but clear enough for him to see feet stirring up puffs of cloudiness from the bottom of the pool. His own feet touched the water first, the shock of cold making him pull his legs up with a gasp. The maneuver backfired, the shift in weight dropping his butt right into the freezing water and he yelped, twisting and climbing the chuckling demon to get higher, turning chest to chest, wrapping his legs around the pure hard muscle of Ichigo’s torso and hitching his knees as high as he could.

“Don’t!” Another stride forward and his tired muscles were shaking from trying to claw his way up the demon, his feet kicking bare flesh and splashing. “No! Turn around, damn you!”

“Calm down, foolish boy. As nice as it is to see you afraid of something other than me for once, this,” Toshiro whimpered as another step made it impossible to avoid water covering his legs, his rear, creeping between their bodies, sapping away the heat from his now quite limp penis, “is your element, my sweet. What is ice but water? You have nothing to fear.”

“I’m not afraid, stupid demon. It’s freezing!”

Pressing as close as possible to the only source of warmth, he was now draped over the strong shoulder, arms wrapped around Ichigo's head. His demon’s laughter shook his entire body. Jaw clenched to prevent his teeth from chattering, skin shivering, he still managed to feel the sting of indignation. So many things the demon could have mocked tonight, but this simple human weakness was the one thing the wretch exploited.

“Some lord of winter you are, strange human. Reach inside, then tell the water what you want.”

He blinked, staring down at the smooth lines of the demon's back, then up at the grass they had walked through, wilted and damp from being frozen and thawed. Could it be so simple yet again? His strangle-hold on the demon’s neck lightened as he thought, then he closed his eyes and imagined himself back in his true home, surrounded by snow. It was far colder than the water, far colder than any winter night he had known. He felt it, deep in his bones, yet he was not at all uncomfortable. It was as if this was natural to him, his frail body made to match the bitter wind that burned skin and lung.

Snow crunched under bare feet as he stepped forward and bent down to scoop up a handful of soft white. He was distracted, noticing the strange garment wrapped around him, twisting to get a good look at himself while he held his little snowball aloft. The robe was beautiful, shimmering between white and silvery-blue with every shift, ivory snowflakes glimmering and vanishing with changes in light. Almost stiff with thick stitching, yet very soft to the touch, it draped about him from neck to ankle. Long, open sleeves brushed the snow when his empty hand skimmed across the dark blue and silver sash tied in an elaborate bow at his side.

An idea presented itself, and he concentrated, perhaps harder than necessary as the ice immediately answered his call. Startled, he met his own wide eyes in the thick, tall oval of ice that hovered before him, reflecting his image quite clearly. In that mirror, a stranger stood gaping back at him, elegant and ethereal, a spirit of frost with skin tinged pink with cold, hair white and wild as a snowstorm, eyes of deep ice, all dressed in the pristine shine of a winter morning. Wonder made way for mild embarrassment to be thinking of himself as pretty, dolled up in what resembled an old-fashioned dress. Then a sort of pride and glee grew, imagining the look on Ichigo’s face were the demon to see him like this.

Indulging for another few minutes, he reminded himself that said demon was waiting. Did time halt in ‘reality’ while he lingered here? Or was he naked and unconscious all this time, hanging over Ichigo's shoulder like a limp sack of wheat?

The handful of snow had long since fallen, but the mirror would provide an even more reliable answer to his next question. He thought of what he wanted, felt a twinge of what he was coming to recognize as power within himself, and the thick ice collapsed into a puddle, melting the snow, steaming. He reached out to touch warm water and smiled.

 

oooooooOOOOOooooooo

 

“It isn’t as easy as in my inner world.”

“Of course not. There, everything is a part of you. Here, everything has its own life. You can influence, or you can force as much as your power will allow. Being naturally adept with water, it will take far less of your energy to influence it, and you should use that to your advantage.”

The smaller body relaxed back against his chest, distracting him for a moment by how his dream had become real, his Toshiro sitting comfortably on his legs in the warm water, head leaning to rest on his shoulder. His arms were wrapped around the human, as content as he could imagine. An elegant hand lifted out of the lightly steaming pool, the palmful of water freezing into solid ice, melting again as it dropped into the pool with a splash and a grin.

“For example,” he continued, voice soft but with a tone he often took on when lecturing his young pupil, “you can lift and move that rock from the shore. Use only your energy and even such a small thing will drain your inexperienced power. Learn an incantation such as human mages use to coax the natural energy of the earth to work for them, and less of your own energy will be required. But you have an edge, your affinity with water. Use the water to move the stone, and you can accomplish more with far less drain of your energy.”

“And if my affinity as you call it was with earth, I could move the stone without much effort, but I would have trouble doing this.”

Once cold, then as warm as sunlight, the water grew cold again with the boy’s words, a sheet of ice covering the surface. He smiled at the delighted laugh, the boy a little drunk on the newfound power. He pretended to shiver just to hear another shimmering ripple of laughter. Quickly enough the water warmed again, and he watched with pride as a silvery snake of water twisted up from the surface at the far side of the pool, reaching to encase the small stone and suck it down into the depths.

Kissing the shining hair in praise, he noted that it was not nearly as much fun to nuzzle when it was soaked with water. The untamable locks fell heavy, longer than they seemed when dry, trailing into the water, feathering out on the surface below narrow shoulders. Those shoulders tensed when a small vortex formed where the stone had dropped, the water swirling faster as fire bloomed and spun in the center of the maelstrom.

“Ichigo . . .” breathless voice, just as his name had had been whispered in the throes of passion, “I can feel it . . . the fire.”

“It is me you feel, precious one, my power in your water, my energy in the fire. Someday, you will be able to call fire, though it may never answer with joy as the water does. Such a talent, mages would sell me their souls for less.”

The pretty head turned, eyes narrowed.

“Can you do that? Give a human power?”

“Power, yes, I can loan my own energy to another. So can you, once you learn the trick of it. But an elemental gift such as yours? No. I cannot alter a human’s soul. If you were thinking to lay blame or credit for your gift at my feet, you are mistaken.”

“How do you know these things? Is it the same for demons; is fire your element?”

Holding back his amusement at the boy’s questions was getting easier. He did not want to discourage inquisitiveness, and when he was honest with himself, the questions were challenging enough for him. Some thought was required to ‘translate’ between his kind’s natural talent and what humans went through to gain power over their world. He let go of the water, letting it quench the fire.

“No, my sweet. I have known, fought, hunted enough human mages to understand somewhat how it works for you, but I am not the same. As I showed you not long ago, all elements answer my call. All energy would be more accurate, elements themselves breaking down into simpler components which are a part of all things, including us.”

He could practically hear the clever cogs turning in his Toshiro’s pretty head, but it was enough for now. Even had Ichigo not given in to temptation many times, little samples of Toshiro's power adding up to a small feast that would weaken the boy, he was new to this. Toshiro used far too much power for every small action and would not stop playing with the water that surrounded them. Waves and stillness, eddies and currents, changes in temperature and even condensing the water, creating pressure where there should be very little. The human would be exhausted as soon as the adrenaline of discovery wore off.

Standing and scooping up the boy in one fluid movement, he ignored the protesting shout, focusing instead on the slick skin squirming against him, the trusting arms looping again around his neck. Far enough from the modest waterfall to be certain he could hear every whisper, he laid his precious cargo down, a flick of power to dry them both and provide a thick, soft pile of blankets. He was rewarded with a quiet laugh as he stretched beside the beautiful soul that made him mad with hunger, the beautiful body that brought a different hunger to torment him.

Toshiro stared smiling up at the stars, eyelashes shivering as a large hand settled on him, spanning his entire stomach. The night could very well be a dream, too many impossible things, things too impossibly good to be true. Perhaps Ichigo had already eaten him. The nightmare of the demon slowly killing him, eating his flesh as he watched had been real, his soul consumed and free to do nothing but dream of the demon he had become part of. Not an unpleasant eternity. Certainly preferable to the priests' promised afterlife of enslavement, nonstop praising of a god who had done nothing for him in his short life. No, Ichigo deserved far more of his reverence.

Turning his head, his heart skipped a beat at the ravenous look in the strange eyes drifting down his bare body. He brought his hand up to caress the fingers lightly pressed into his vulnerable flesh. If this was a dream, he had nothing to fear. If it was not, fear served no purpose. The demon could choose to rip into him at any time, and he could do nothing to stop it. Nor did he care to.

“My poor mother spent almost all her time entertaining me as a child. She had to be both of my parents, my protector, my teacher, my playmate. And she did well. I remember being happy, once, a long time ago. Not as happy as I am now. I've smiled more, laughed more tonight than in all the years since she died.”

The gleam of hunger did not lessen much, but the quirk of a brow and the bemused smile showed that the demon was listening.

“Ichigo, if you do as you say, if you let me live and teach me magic, know that I will fight to control my own life and become more powerful even than you. Such must be possible, and I will make it my life's work to close the gates and banish your kind or give others the knowledge to do so. So now, while I am completely at your mercy and too grateful to protest, now you should kill me. I will come to my senses if you leave me at dawn, but at this moment I want you to be as happy as you have made me.”

He had kept his eyes locked with black and gold as he spoke, watching confusion become astonishment, watching hunger redouble with a wicked glint as he surrendered his life willingly, just as the demon had always said that he would. Ichigo had won. Knowledge had indeed led him into the night, into knowingly sacrificing his life and soul to this glorious creature. A small price to pay for the past hours.

“You wish to make me happy?”

He nodded with a smile, pushing any regret out of his mind. The hand under his made gentle circles.

“Even if what makes me happy is painful for you?”

The wide grin showed sharp fangs alongside more human teeth. He realized then that the razor points would hurt far less than their flat, dull counterparts. Or would his nightmare come true; would a numbing mercy dull the experience of his own death? He hoped not, though he was sure he would change his preferences once the torture began.

“Even if you must make me hurt and fear you until I lose my resolve and beg and scream. This is a onetime offer, my demon.”

The grin widened, and he felt a flash of the fear he had promised as the fangs seemed to lengthen, cruel amusement lighting the handsome face. It did not surprise him to feel aroused at the sight, at the expectation of pain and blood. There was something both exciting and comforting in the solid affirmation of life that came with the proof of how fragile he was, how tenuous his hold on his next breath.

He had said nothing about the throbbing in his right shoulder, skin and muscle at the base of his neck pierced by the bite inflicted by his demon to reach the blood that made Ichigo moan so erotically. He had said nothing about how the sting and ache of it had been so perfect that it had distracted him from the unreal pleasure of Ichigo’s hand and cock rubbing his own, then amplified that sensation as far beyond pain as the stars were beyond his grasping hands. It helped, perhaps, to know that there would be bliss in death. He had said nothing more of his conviction, proven by that savage bite, that the demon could not resist, could not stand by the promise to not kill him tonight.

Endless dreams had been awakened in him, limitless possibilities where once only hopelessness reigned. He would travel the world, learn everything the great masters would teach, gather knowledge and impart it for the betterment of his wretched race. None of this would have been possible without Ichigo; very little of it had occurred to his already weary heart before the demon spoke to him. He had something to lose, but it was a future he owed to the being now crouching above him, now lowering lips to his forehead and gently, so softly kissing.

“Then, my sweet, lie still if you can and I will take from you that which shall make me deliriously happy.”

Swallowing hard, he nodded again, unable to offer another smile. He would do his best, try to face this with more courage than Sojiro, try to remain still and accepting as long as he could. His hand left the demon’s arm, falling to rest by his side on the velveteen blanket. He stroked it absently with both hands, the clean, slippery-soft fibers that had not existed moments before, called into being by the power of a demon just as he had been.

For all the heavy thoughts, the dread and longing for what was to come, he could not help the easy way his lips responded to Ichigo’s. He loved the taste of the demon’s mouth, complex as all the new flavors he had explored this night, clean and spicy, natural and exotic in turns. Surely, he did not taste this way. It must be something unique to demonkind, or a trick to enchant prey, as changeable as the teeth which had become needle fine points before his curious tongue was granted its turn. Mere ghosting over those points left fine cuts; the demon chased his retreating tongue to lick at saliva-diluted blood.

Drawing a deep, shuddering breath as the hot lips and hotter tongue withdrew, his eyes mapped out and once more memorized the features of his demon, so unbearably close, before they moved down. Kisses were trailed over his jaw, down his throat, feather fine and harmless. He stopped trying to predict. He had been wrong every time he expected the end to come, so he let himself enjoy this miracle again for as long as his demon wished to draw it out.

Scratching, the hand on his stomach moved. He did not need to look; the image of the demon’s talons was forever seared into his memory, subtly curved obsidian, narrow enough to look delicate from a distance but solid and deadly. He shook to think of those claws finally touching him, thrilled at the restraint required to make pink welts down his leg instead of shredding the flesh.

The first nip of teeth, so keen the sting was felt seconds later like a papercut, was on his left collarbone, heat moving on toward his shoulder then returning to lick the fine punctures. The effort to not reach for the hair tickling his cheek as Ichigo suckled at the wound was a much greater torture than the mild bite, and he turned his head to muffle a moan in the fiery softness. Another assault, unexpectedly sudden and a great deal more painful as teeth furrowed a long set of deep red lines from collar down to heart, the slices left to burn in open air as the demon’s tongue sought out his nipple instead of the blood trickling across his heaving chest.

“Ichigo!”

Too needy to be a protest, too distressed to be a moan, and he fought his body, letting the pain and fear wash through him, chased by heat. Down, spine forced to stop arching, down to the blanket clutched in his hands, to lie still as asked. It had only just begun, and he could feel the dripping on his pelvis from his erection, hot wet trails matching the trickling down the side of his ribs, the pooling liquid in the hollow at the base of his throat. He hoped his lover, his killer, his demon would not mind, not that he could stop the orgasm that was inevitable with the pleasure pulsing in time with the sucking heat moving to the other side of his chest, the rough strokes of the tongue that paused to dip into the gathered blood.

Noises spilled out of him uncontrolled now, the inability to writhe and grind as he wished needing some outlet. He heard a hissing, felt it on his damp skin as his demon moved lower. One set of hard claws came to rest on his neck, four distinct threats that made him overly conscious of every groan, every sigh, every gasp as each individual rib was licked and sucked on, possibly bitten, he could no longer tell as all his nerves sang in a delicious, clamoring warning to run, to fight, to escape.

The knives that had dragged down his one thigh slid up the inside of the other, smooth, the backs of knuckles and the glass of long nails. Without thought of the goal of remaining still, he parted his thighs, eager to feel the restrained lethal touch on thinner, fragile skin. But the hand trailed up the crease of his hip, wrist turning so that it was the dangerous side of the talons that gripped at the protruding bone. He knew they must be piercing his skin though the pain became instantly lost in the storm of sensation.

A pause, a calm in the eye of that beloved storm, claws holding his throat and hip. The demon had moved, pushed his spread thighs farther apart to settle knees between his legs, kneeling, the fanged mouth of his predator hovering close over his soft stomach. Yes, it would be there, the softest, weakest part of him. He knew that a human could live quite some time with stomach ripped open, and he recalled the nightmare detail of feeling a tongue lapping inside his wound.

His breath was ragged as the world stopped turning, the demon a beautiful statue glowing against the starry black backdrop as infinite seconds slipped away. Once the dizziness subsided, only his eyes could strain to see, head immobilized by the hovering daggers that had already gifted him a delicate necklace of ruby red, each deep breath breaking skin.

The slightest tilt of orange and he moaned in longing as he met eyes overtaken completely by luminous yellow, bright as the sun in the clear night. As slow as sunrise, those radiant orbs of searing light moved closer, closer, until they were all he could see. His own eyes watered, tears spilling quietly. It was the brightness, that was all, he told himself. Not joy at being the one human in this sorry world blessed to be so close to this vision, not grief brought on by insatiable greed to stay here pinned beneath Ichigo forever.

“So delicious, my sweet. Time unmeasured, countless souls, never have I given so much of myself to the pursuit of any soul. Never have I ached so desperately as I have for you. Tell me again, dearest Toshiro. Tell me that you give yourself to me willingly, that I may have everything I desire.”

“Kiss me.”

So greedy. So human. The claws at his throat were gone, a human hand caressing his cheek, sharp fangs dulled and he indulged, passively accepting the pleasure of the skilled tongue making every mundane surface tingle and shiver. He let his eyes shut, afterimage of the sun nearly as bright through the red and black. He trembled when the kiss ended with the gentlest parting of lips. His heart was racing, panicked, foolish thing hammering away at his ribcage not knowing there was no escape.

“Take it. I have been yours, always.”

A joyful smile, far brighter even than the glowing eyes, but he had no time to smile back, just as full of joy to have fulfilled his wish to make his savior happy. A blur of movement, the demon's open mouth lunging down, scalding heat, his body drew taut in a helpless convulsion as his vision went white and he screamed.

 


End file.
